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THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL 
NONSENSE 


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THE  CITY  OF 
BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 


BYs 

K.  TEMPLE  THURSTON 

AUTHOR  OF 

**Th0  AppU  of  Edm,"  "Mirage,"  ate. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD.  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

1911 


60036 


Copyright,  1900.  by 
DODD.  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

PubUth4d,  September,  190© 


T4 


1 


Dedicated  to 
ROSESTA    FlLIPPI, 

lO  tvkom  I  am  indebted  Jhr  the  gift  of 

laughter  which  I  hope  has  crept  its  xuajf 

into  the  pages  qf  this  book, 

London,  18,  3,  '09. 


J, 


CONTENTS 

Book  I 
THE  ROAD  TO  THE  CITY 

CHAFTEB  PAOB 

I.  A    Pbelude    on    the    Eve    of    St. 

Joseph's  Day 1 

n.     The  Last  Candle 6 

HI.  The  Geeengrocer's — Fetter  Lane  .     13 

IV.  What  to  Call  a  Hero    ....     18 

V.  The  Ballad-Monger — ^Fetter  Lane     23 

[VI.  Of  Kensington   Gardens      ...     '31 

VII.  The    Voyage    of    the    Good    Ship 

Albatross 39 

VIII.  The  Fateful  Ticket-Puncher  .      .     47 

IX.  The  Art  of  Hieroglyphics  ...     59 

X.  The  Need  for  Intuition      ....     71 

XI.  A  Side-light  Upon  Appearances     .     74$ 

XII.  The  Chapel  of  Unredemption  .      .     78 

XIII.     The  Inventory 9£ 

XIV.     The  Way  to  Find  Out 98 

XV.  What  is  Hidden  by  a  Camisole   .      .   107 

XVI.     Easter  Sunday 117 

XVII.  The  Fly  in  the  Amber    ....   129 

XVIII.  The  Nonsense-Maker      .      .      .      .   141 

XIX.  The  Mr.  Chesterton       .      .      .      .    157 

XX.  Why  Jill  Prayed  to  St.  Joseph     .    167 

XXI.  The  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense  .   177 


CONTENTS 

Book  II 

THE   TUNNEL 

CHAPTEB 

PAOK 

XXII. 

The  Heart  Op  the  Shadow 

..   189 

xxin. 

Ambee 

.  197 

Book  III 
THE    CITY 


XXIV. 

The  Paij\.zzo   Capeixo 

207 

XXV. 

The  Lettee — ^Venice 

213 

XXVI. 

The  Return — ^Venice     . 

224 

xxvn. 

The  True  Mother    .      .      . 

229 

xxvin. 

The  Treasure  Shop 

237 

XXIX. 

The  Candle  for  St.  Anthony    . 

250 

XXX. 

The  Qualities  of  Ignatia    . 

257 

XXXI. 

The  Sacrifice      .      .      .      .      . 

266 

xxxn. 

The  Departure — Venice    ,.      . 

274 

xxxin. 

The  16th  of  February — ^Lon- 

don    

285 

XXXIV. 

The  Dissoluble  Bondage    . 

•300 

XXXV. 

The  Wonder  of  Belief  . 

306 

XXXVI. 

The  Passing    ...... 

312 

XXXVH. 

The  Circular  Tour  ... 

819 

xxxvin. 

A  Process  of  Honesty    . 

384 

XXXIX. 

Tff.  End  of  the  Loom    .     >      . 

838 

BOOK   I 
THE   ROAD    TO    THE   CITY 


The  City  of   Beautiful  Nonsense 

CHAPTER    I 
A   PRELUDE   ON  THE  EVE   OF   ST.   JOSEPH'S   DAY 

Of  course,  the  eighteenth  of  March — but  it  is  out 
of  the  question  to  say  upon  which  day  of  the  week 
it  fell. 

It  was  half-past  seven  in  the  evening.  At  half- 
past  seven  it  is  dark,  the  lamps  are  lighted,  the 
houses  huddle  together  in  groups.  They  have  se- 
crets to  tell  as  soon  as  it  is  dark.  Ah!  If  you 
knew  the  secrets  that  houses  are  telling  when  the 
shadows  draw  them  so  close  together!  But  you 
never  will  know.  They  close  their  eyes  and  they 
whisper. 

Around  the  fields  of  Lincoln's  Inn  it  was  as  still 
as  the  grave.  The  footsteps  of  a  lawyer's  clerk 
hurrying  late  away  from  chambers  vibrated  through 
the  intense  quiet.  You  heard  each  step  to  the 
very  last.  So  long  as  you  could  see  him,  you  heard 
them'  plainly ;  then  he  vanished  behind  the  curtain 
of  shadows,  the  sounds  became  muffled,  and  at  last 
the  silence  crept  back  into  the  Fields — crept  all 
round  you,  half  eager,  half  reluctant,  like  sleepy 
children  drawn  from  their  beds  to  hear  the  end  of 
a  fairy  story. 


g      THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

There  was  a  fairy  story  to  be  told,  too. 

It  began  that  night  of  the  eighteenth  of  March 
— the  Eve  of  St.  Joseph's  day. 

I  don't  know  what  it  is  about  St.  Joseph,  but  of 
all  those  saints  who  crowd  their  hallowed  names 
upon  the  calendar — and,  good  heavens!  there  are 
so  many — he  seems  most  worthy  of  cannonisation. 
In  the  fervent  fanaticism  of  faith,  the  virtue  of  a 
martyr's  death  is  almost  its  own  reward;  but  to 
live  on  in  the  belief  of  that  miracle  which  offers  to 
crush  marital  happiness,  scattering  family  honour 
like  dust  before  the  four  winds  of  heaven — that 
surely  was  the  noblest  martyrdom  of  all. 

There  is  probably  enough  faith  left  in  some  to- 
day to  give  up  their  hves  for  their  religion ;  but  I 
know  of  no  man  who  would  allow  his  faith  to  in- 
tercede for  the  honour  of  his  wife's  good  name  when 
once  the  hand  of  circumstance  had  played  so  con- 
juring a  trick  upon  him. 

And  so,  amongst  Roman  Catholics,  who,  when  it 
comes  to  matters  of  faith,  are  like  children  at  a 
fair,  even  the  spirit  of  condolence  seems  to  have 
crept  its  way  into  their  attitude  towards  this 
simple-minded  man. 

"  Poor  St.  Joseph,"  they  say — "  I  always  get 
what  I  want  from  him.  I've  never  known  him  to 
fail." 

Or — "  Poor  St.  Joseph — ^he's  not  a  bit  of  good 
to  me.  I  always  pray  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  for 
everything  I  want." 

Could  anything  be  more  childlike,  more  ingenu-. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE      3 

ous,  more  like  a  game  in  a  nursery — the  only  place 
in  the  world  where  things  are  really  believed. 

Every  saint  possesses  his  own  separate  quality, 
efficacious  in  its  own  separate  way.  St.  Rock  holds 
the  magic  philtre  of  health;  you  pray  to  St.  An- 
thony to  recover  all  those  things  that  were  lost — 
and  how  palpably  stand  out  the  times  when,  rising 
from  your  knees,  your  search  was  successful,  how 
readily  those  times  drop  into  oblivion  when  you 
failed.  It  is  impossible  to  enumerate  all  the  saints 
and  their  quahties  crowding  the  pages  of  those 
many  volumes  of  Butler's  Lives.  For  safety  at  sea, 
for  instance,  St.  Gerald  is  unsurpassed;  but  St. 
Joseph — poor  St.  Joseph! — from  him  flow  all  those 
good  things  which  money  can  buy — the  children's 
toys,  the  woman's  pin  money  and  the  luxuries  which 
are  the  necessities  of  the  man. 

Think,  if  you  can — if  you  can  conjure  before  your 
mind's  eye — of  all  the  things  that  must  happen  on 
that  eve  of  the  feast  day  of  St.  Joseph.  How  many 
thousands  of  knees  are  bent,  how  many  thousand 
jaded  bodies  and  hungry  souls  whisper  the  name  of 
poor  St.  Joseph?  The  prayers  for  that  glitter  of 
gold,  that  shine  of  silver  and  that  jangling  of 
copper  are  surely  too  numerous  to  count.  What  a 
busy  day  it  must  be  where  those  prayers  are  heard! 
What  hopes  must  be  bom  that  night  and  what  re- 
sponsibilities lightened!  Try  and  count  the  candles 
that  are  lighted  before  the  shrine  of  St.  Joseph! 
It  is  impossible. 

It  all  resolves  itself  into  a  simple  mathematical 


4      THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

calculation.  Tell  me  how  many  poor  there  are — • 
and  I  will  tell  you  how  many  candles  are  burnt,  how 
many  prayers  are  prayed,  and  how  many  hopes  are 
bom  on  the  eve  of  St.  Joseph's  day. 

And  how  many  poor  are  there  in  the  world? 

The  bell  was  toning  for  eight  o'clock  Benediction 
at  the  Sardinia  St.  Chapel  on  that  evening  of  the 
eighteenth  of  March — Sardinia  St.  Chapel,  which 
stands  so  tremulously  in  the  shadows  of  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields — tremulously,  because  any  day  the  de- 
cision of  the  council  of  a  few  men  may  rase  it 
ruthlessly  to  the  ground. 

Amongst  all  the  figures  kneeling  there  in  the  dim 
candle-light,  their  shoulders  hunched,  their  heads 
sinking  deeply  in  their  hands,  there  was  not  one  but 
on  whose  lips  the  name  of  poor  St.  Joseph  lingered 
in  earnest  or  piteous  appeal. 

These  were  the  poor  of  the  earth,  and  who  and 
what  were  they.? 

There  was  a  stock-broker  who  paid  a  rent  of  some 
three  hundred  pounds  a  year  for  his  offices  in  the 
City,  a  rent  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  for  his  cham- 
bers in  Temple  Gardens,  and  whose  house  in  the 
country  was  kept  in  all  the  splendour  of  wealth. 

Behind  him — he  sat  in  a  pew  by  himself — was  a 
lady  wearing  a  heavy  fur  coat.  She  was  young. 
Twenty-three  at  the  utmost.  There  was  nothing  to 
tell  from  her,  but  her  bent  head,  that  the  need  of 
money  could  ever  enter  into  her  consideration.  She 
also  was  in  a  pew  alone.  Behind  her  sat  three 
servant  girls.  On  the  other  side  of  the  aisle,  paral- 
lel with  the  lady  in  the  fur  coat,  there  was  a  young 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE      5 

man — a  writer — a  journalist — a  driver  of  the  pen, 
whose  greatest  source  of  poverty  was  his  ambition. 

Kneeling  behind  him  at  various  distances,  there 
were  a  clerk,  a  bank  manager,  a  charwoman;  and 
behind  all  these,  at  the  end  of  the  chapel,  devout, 
intent,  and  as  earnest  as  the  rest,  were  four  Italian 
organ-grinders . 

These  are  the  poor  of  the  earth.  They  are  not 
a  class.  They  are  every  class.  Poverty  is  not  a  con- 
dition of  some ;  it  is  a  condition  of  all.  Those  things 
we  desire  are  so  far  removed  from  those  which  we 
obtain,  that  all  of  us  are  paupers.  And  so,  that 
simple  arithmetical  problem  must  remain  un- 
solved; for  it  is  impossible  to  tell  the  poor  of  this 
world  and,  therefore,  just  so  impossible  it  is  to  count 
the  candles  that  are  burnt,  the  prayers  that  are 
prayed  or  the  hopes  that  are  bom  on  the  eve  of 
St.  Joseph's  day. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   LAST   CANDLE 

When  the  Benediction  was  over  and  the  priest  had 
passed  in  procession  with  the  acolytes  into  the  mys- 
terious shadows  behind  the  altar,  the  little  congre- 
gation rose  slowly  to  its  feet. 

One  by  one  they  approached  the  altar  of  St. 
Joseph.  One  by  one  their  pennies  rattled  into  the 
brown  wooden  box  as  they  took  out  their  candles, 
and  soon  the  sconce  before  the  painted  image  of 
that  simple-minded  saint  was  ablaze  with  little 
points  of  light. 

There  is  nature  in  everything;  as  much  in  light- 
ing candles  for  poor  St.  Joseph  as  you  will  find  in 
the  most  momentous  decision  of  a  life-time. 

The  wealthy  stock-broker,  counting  with  care 
two  pennies  from  amongst  a  handful  of  silver,  was 
servant  to  the  impulses  of  his  nature.  It  crossed 
his  mind  that  they  must  be  only  farthing  candles 
— a  penny,  therefore,  was  a  very  profitable  return 
— the  Church  was  too  grasping.  He  would  buy 
no  more  than  two.  Why  should  the  Church  profit 
seventy-five  per  cent,  upon  his  faith?  He  gave 
generously  to  the  collection.  It  may  be  questioned, 
too,  why  St.  Joseph  should  give  him  what  he  had 
asked,  a  transaction  which  brought  no  apparent 
profit  to  St.  Joseph  at  all?     He  did  not  appreciate 

6 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE      7 

that  side  of  it.  He  had  prayed  that  a  speculation 
involving  some  thousands  of  pounds  should  prove 
successful.  If  his  prayer  were  granted,  he  would  be 
the  richer  by  twenty  per  cent,  upon  his  investment — 
but  not  seventy-five,  oh,  no — not  seventy-five!  And 
so  those  two  pennies  assumed  the  proportions  of 
an  exactment  which  he  grudgingly  bestowed.  They 
rattled  in  his  ear  as  they  fell. 

After  him  followed  the  charwoman.  Crossing  her- 
self, she  bobbed  before  the  image.  Her  money  was 
already  in  her  hand.  All  through  the  service,  she 
had  gripped  it  in  a  perspiring  palm,  fearing  that 
it  might  be  lost.  Three-penny-bits  are  mischievous 
little  coins.  She  gave  out  a  gentle  sigh  of  relief 
when  at  last  she  heard  it  tinkle  in  the  box.  It  was 
Aafe  there.  That  was  its  destination.  The  three 
farthing  candles  became  hers.  She  lit  them  lov- 
ingly. Three  children  there  were,  waiting  in  some 
tenement  buildings  for  her  return.  As  she  put  each 
candle  in  its  socket,  she  whispered  each  separate 
name — John — Mary — Michael.  There  was  not  one 
for  herself. 

Then  came  the  clerk.  He  lit  four.  They  rep- 
resented the  sum  of  coppers  that  he  had.  It  might 
have  bought  a  packet  of  cigarettes.  He  looked 
pensively  at  the  four  candles  he  had  lighted  in  the 
sconce,  then  turned,  fatalistically,  on  his  heel.  After 
all,  what  good  could  four  farthing  candles  do  to  poor 
St.  Joseph.?  Perhaps  he  had  been  a  fool — per- 
haps it  was  a  waste  of  money. 

Following  him  was  the  bank  manager.  Six  can- 
dles he  took  out  of  the  brown  wooden  box.     Every 


8       THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

year  he  lit  six.  He  had  never  lit  more ;  he  had 
never  lit  less.  He  lit  them  hurriedly,  self-con- 
sciously, as  though  he  were  ashamed  of  so  many 
and,  turning  quickly  away,  did  not  notice  that  the 
wick  of  one  of  them  had  burnt  down  and  gone  out. 

The  first  servant  girl  who  came  after  him,  lifted 
it  out  of  the  socket  and  lit  it  at  another  flame. 

"  I'm  going  to  let  that  do  for  me,"  she  whis- 
pered to  the  servant  girl  behind  her.  "  I  lit  it — it  'ud 
a'  been  like  that  to-morrow  if  I  'adn't  a'  lit  it." 

Seeing  her  companion's  expression  of  contempt, 
she  giggled  nervously.  She  must  have  been  glad  to 
get  away  down  into  the  shadows  of  the  church. 
There,  she  slipped  into  an  empty  pew  and  sank  on 
to  her  knees. 

"  Please  Gawd,  forgive  me,"  she  whispered.  "  I 
know  it  was  mean  of  me,"  and  she  tried  to  sum- 
mon the  courage  to  go  back  and  light  a  new  candle. 
But  the  courage  was  not  there.  It  requires  more 
courage  than  you  would  think. 

At  last  all  had  gone  but  the  lady  In  the  heavy 
fur  coat  and  the  writer — the  journalist — the  driver 
of  the  pen.  There  was  a  flood  of  light  from  all 
the  candles  at  the  little  altar,  the  church  was  empty, 
everything  was  still;  but  there  these  two  remained, 
kneeling  silently  in  their  separate  pews. 

What  need  was  there  in  the  heart  of  her  that 
kept  her  so  patiently  upon  her  knees?  Some  press- 
ing desire,  you  may  be  sure — some  want  that  women 
have  and  only  women  understand.  And  what  was 
the  need  in  him?  Not  money!  Nothing  that  St. 
Joseph  could  give.     He  had  no  money.     One  penny 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE      9 

was  lying  contentedly  at  the  bottom  of  his  pocket. 
That,  at  the  moment,  was  all  he  had  in  the  world. 
It  is  mostly  when  you  have  many  possessions  that 
you  need  the  possession  of  more.  To  own  one  penny, 
knowing  that  there  is  no  immediate  possibility  of 
owning  another,  that  is  as  near  contentment  as  one 
can  well-nigh  reach. 

Then  whj"^  did  he  wait  on  upon  his  knees?  What 
was  the  need  in  the  heart  of  him.?  Nature  again — 
human  nature,  too — simply  the  need  to  know  the 
need  in  her.     That  was  all. 

Ten  minutes  passed.  He  watched  her  through 
the  interstices  of  his  fingers.  But  she  did  not  move. 
At  last,  despairing  of  any  further  discovery  than 
that  you  may  wear  a  fur  coat  costing  thirty  guineas 
and  still  be  poor,  still  pray  to  St.  Joseph,  he  rose 
slowly  to  his  feet. 

Almost  immediately  afterwards,  she  followed  him. 

He  walked  directly  to  the  altar  and  his  penny 
had  jangled  in  the  box  before  he  became  aware  that 
there  was  only  one  candle  left. 

He  looked  back.  The  lady  was  waiting.  The 
impulse  came  in  a  moment.  He  stood  aside  and 
left  the  candle  where  it  was.  Then  he  slowly  turned 
away. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  playful  Circum- 
stance links  hands  with  a  light-hearted  Fate,  and 
the  two  combined  execute  as  dainty  an  impromptu 
dance  of  events  as  would  take  the  wit  of  a  man  some 
months  of  thought  to  rehearse. 

Here  you  have  a  man,  a  woman,  and  a  candle 
destined  for  the  altar  of  St.  Joseph,  all  flung  to- 


10     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

gether  in  an  empty  church  by  the  playful  hand  of 
Circumstance  and  out  of  so  strange  a  medley  comes 
a  fairy  story — the  story  of  the  City  of  Beautiful 
Nonsense — a  dream  or  a  reality — they  are  one  and 
the  same  thing — a  little  piece  of  colour  in  the 
great  patchwork  which  views  the  souls  still  sleep- 
ing. 

He  knew,  as  he  slowly  turned  away,  that  the  mat- 
ter did  not  end  there.  You  must  not  only  be  a  stu- 
dent of  human  nature  in  order  to  drive  a  pen.  Cir- 
cumstance must  be  anticipated  as  well.  There  may 
be  nature  in  everything,  but  it  is  the  playful  hand 
of  Circumstance  which  brings  it  to  your  eyes.  So, 
he  slowly  turned  away — oh,  but  very  slowly — with 
just  so  much  show  of  action  as  was  necessary  to 
convey  that  he  had  no  intention  to  remain. 

But  every  sense  in  him  was  ready  for  the  moment 
when  her  voice  arrested  him. 

"  You  have  not,"  said  she,  "  taken  the  candle  that 
you  paid  for."    Her  voice  was  low  to  a  whisper. 

He  came  round  on  his  heel  at  once. 

*'  No — it's  the  last.  I  didn't  notice  that  when  I 
dropped  my  penny  in." 

"  But  you  ought  to  take  it." 

"  I  left  it  for  you." 

"But  why  should  you.''" 

"  It  seemed  possible  that  you  might  want  to  light 
it  more  than  I  did." 

What  did  he  mean  by  that.'*  That  she  was  poor, 
poorer  than  he?  That  the  generosity  of  St.  Jo- 
seph was  of  greater  account  to  her?  It  was.  It 
must  be  surely.     No  one  could  need  more  sorely  the 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     11 

assistance  of  the  powers  of  heaven  than  she  did 
then. 

But  why  should  he  know?  Why  should  he  think 
that?  Had  it  been  that  poor  charwoman — oh,  yes. 
But — she  looked  at  his  serviceable  blue  serge  suit, 
compared  it  instinctively  with  the  luxury  of  her 
heavy  fur  coat — why  should  he  think  that  of  her? 

**  I  don't  see  why  I  should  accept  your  gener- 
osity," she  whispered. 

He  smiled. 

"  I  offer  it  to  St.  Joseph,"  said  he. 

She  took  up  the  candle. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  found  your  offer- 
ing the  more  acceptable  of  the  two." 

He  watched  her  light  it;  he  watched  her  place  it 
in  an  empty  socket.  He  noticed  her  hands — deli- 
cate— white — fingers  that  tapered  to  the  dainty  fin- 
ger nails.  What  could  it  have  been  that  she  had  been 
praying  for? 

"  Well — I  don't  suppose  St.  Joseph  is  very  par- 
ticular," he  said  with  a  humorous  twist  of  the  lip. 

"Don't  you?     Poor  St.  Joseph!" 

She  crossed  herself  and  turned  away  from  the 
altar. 

"  Now — ^I  owe  you  a  penny,"  she  added. 

She  held  out  the  coin,  but  he  made  no  motion  to 
take  it. 

"  I'd  rather  not  be  robbed,"  said  he,  "  of  a  frac- 
tion of  my  offer  to  St.  Joseph.  Would  you  mind 
very  much  if  you  continued  to  owe  ?  " 

"  As  you  wish."  She  withdrew  her  hand.  "  Then, 
thank  you  very  much.     Good-night." 


12    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Good-night." 

He  walked  slowly  after  her  down  the  church.  It 
had  been  a  delicate  stringing  of  moments  on  a 
slender  thread  of  incident — that  was  all.  It  had 
yielded  nothing.  She  left  hira  just  as  ignorant  as 
before.  He  knew  no  better  why  she  had  been  pray- 
ing so  earnestly  to  poor  St.  Joseph. 

But  then,  when  you  know  what  a  woman  prays 
for,  you  know  the  deepest  secret  of  her  heart.  And 
it  is  impossible  to  learn  the  deepest  secret  of  a 
woman's  heart  in  ten  minutes ;  though  you  may 
more  likely  arrive  at  it  then,  than  in  a  life-time. 


CHAPTER  ni 

THE    GREENGROCER'S— FETTER   LANE 

Two  or  three  years  ago,  there  was  a  certain  green- 
grocer's shop  in  Fetter  Lane.  The  front  window 
had  been  removed,  the  better  to  expose  the  display 
of  fruits  and  vegetables  which  were  arranged  on 
gradually  ascending  tiers,  completely  obstructing 
your  vision  into  the  shop  itself.  Oranges,  bananas, 
potatoes,  apples,  dates — all  pressed  together  in  the 
condition  in  which  they  had  arrived  at  the  London 
docks,  ballast  for  the  good  ship  that  brought  them 
— carrots  and  cauliflowers,  all  in  separate  little  com- 
partments, were  huddled  together  on  the  ascend- 
ing rows  of  shelves  like  colours  that  a  painter  leaves 
negligently  upon  his  palette. 

At  night,  a  double  gas  jet  blew  in  the  wind  just 
outside,  deepening  the  contrasts,  the  oranges  with 
the  dull  earth  brown  of  the  potatoes,  the  bright  yel- 
low bananas  with  the  sheen  of  blue  on  the  green 
cabbages!  Oh,  that  sheen  of  blue  on  the  green 
cabbages !  It  was  all  the  more  beautiful  for  being 
an  effect  rather  than  a  real  colour.  How  an  artist 
would  have  loved  it! 

These  greengrocers'  shops  and  stalls  are  really 
most  picturesque,  so  much  more  savoury,  too,  than 
any  other  shop — except  a  chemist's.  Of  course, 
there  is  nothing  to  equal  that  wholesome  smell  of 

13 


14    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

brown  Windsor  soap  which  pervades  even  the  most 
cash  of  all  cash  chemist's!  An  up-to-date  fruiter- 
er's in  Piccadilly  may  have  as  fine  an  odour,  perhaps ; 
but  then  an  up-to-date  fruiterer  is  not  a  greengrocer. 
He  does  not  dream  of  calling  himself  such.  They 
art  greengrocers  in  Fetter  Lane — greengrocers  in 
the  Edgware  Road — greengrocers  in  old  Drury,  but 
fruiterers  in  Piccadilly. 

Compared,  then,  with  the  ham  and  beef  shop,  the 
fish-monger's,  and  the  inevitable  oil  shop,  where,  in 
such  neighbourhoods  as  these,  you  buy  everything, 
this  greengrocer's  was  a  welcome  oasis  in  a  desert 
of  unsavoury  smells  and  gloomy  surroundings.  The 
colours  it  displayed,  the  brilliant  flame  of  that  pyra- 
mid of  oranges,  those  rosy  cheeks  of  the  apples,  that 
glaring  yellow  cluster  of  bananas  hanging  from  a 
hook  in  the  ceilin'g,  and  the  soft  green  background 
of  cabbages,  cauliflowers  and  every  other  green  vege- 
table which  chanced  to  be  in  season,  with  one  last 
touch  of  all,  some  beetroot,  cut  and  bleeding,  col- 
our that  an  emperor  might  wear,  combined  to  make 
that  little  greengrocer's  shop  in  Fetter  Lane  the 
one  saving  clause  in  an  otherwise  dreary  scheme. 
It  cheered  you  as  you  passed  it  by.  You  felt 
thankful  for  it.  Those  oranges  looked  clean  and 
wholesome.  They  shone  in  the  light  of  that  double 
gas  jet.  They  had  every  reason  to  shine.  Mrs. 
Meakin  rubbed  them  with  her  apron  every  morning 
when  she  built  up  that  perilous  pyramid.  She 
rubbed  the  apples,  too,  until  their  faces  glowed, 
glowed  like  children  ready  to  start  for  school. 
When  you  looked  at  them  you  thought  of  the  coun- 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    15 

try,  the  orchards  where  they  had  been  gathered,  and 
Fetter  Lane,  with  all  its  hawkers'  cries  and  scream- 
ing children,  vanished  from  your  senses.  You  do 
not  get  that  sort  of  an  impression  when  you  look 
in  the  window  of  a  ham  and  beef  shop.  A  plate  of 
sliced  ham,  on  which  two  or  three  flies  crawl  lazily, 
a  pan  of  sausages,  sizzling  in  their  own  fat,  bear 
no  relation  to  anything  higher  than  the  unfastid- 
ious  appetite  of  a  hungry  man. 

That  sort  of  shop,  you  pass  by  quickly ;  but,  even 
if  you  had  not  wished  to  buy  anything,  you  might 
have  hesitated,  then  stopped  before  Mrs.  Meakin's 
little  greengrocer's  stall  in  Fetter  Lane. 

Mrs.  INIeakin  was  very  fat.  She  had  a  face  like 
an  apple — not  an  apple  just  picked,  but  one  that 
has  been  lying  on  the  straw  in  a  loft  through  the 
winter,  well-preserved,  losing  none  of  its  flavour, 
but  the  skin  of  which  is  wrinkled  and  shrivelled  with 
age.  On  a  wooden  chair  without  any  back  to  it, 
she  sat  in  the  shop  all  day  long,  inhaling  that 
healthy,  cleanly  smell  of  good  mother  earth  which 
clung  about  the  sacks  of  potatoes.  Here  it  was 
she  waited  for  the  advent  of  customers.  Whenever 
they  appeared  at  the  door,  she  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment, judging  from  their  attitude  the  likelihood  of 
their  custom,  then,  slapping  both  hands  on  her 
knees,  she  would  rise  slowly  to  her  feet. 

She  was  a  good  woman  of  business,  was  Mrs. 
Meakin,  with  a  capable  way  of  explaining  how  poor 
the  season  was  for  whatever  fruit  or  vegetable  her 
customers  wished  to  purchase.  Tt  must  not  be  suj»- 
posed  that  under  this  pretence  she  demanded  higww. 


16    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

prices  than  were  being  asked  elsewhere.  Oh — not  at 
all!  Honesty  was  written  in  her  face.  It  was  only 
that  she  succeeded  in  persuading  her  customers  that 
under  the  circumstances  they  got  their  vegetables 
at  a  reasonable  price  and,  going  away  quite  con- 
tented, they  were  willing  to  return  again. 

But  what  in  the  name,  even  of  everything  that  is 
unreasonable  have  the  greengrocery  business  and 
the  premises  of  Mrs.  Meakin  to  do  with  the  City  of 
Beautiful  Nonsense?  Is  it  part  of  the  Nonsense  to 
jump  from  a  trade  in  candles  before  the  altar  of  St. 
Joseph  to  a  trade  in  oranges  in  Fetter  Lane?  Yet 
there  is  no  nonsense  In  it.  In  this  fairy  story,  the 
two  are  intimately  related. 

This  is  how  it  happens.  The  house,  in  which 
Mrs.  Meakin's  shop  was  on  the  ground  floor,  was 
three  stories  high  and,  on  the  first  floor  above  the 
shop  itself,  lived  John  Grey,  the  journalist,  the 
writer,  the  driver  of  the  pen,  the  at-present  unex- 
plained figure  in  this  story  who  offered  his  gift  of 
generosity  to  St.  Joseph,  in  order  that  the  other 
as-yet-unexplained  figure  of  the  lady  in  the  heavy 
fur  coat  should  gratify  her  desire  to  light  the  last 
candle  and  place  it  in  the  sconce — a  seal  upon  the 
deed  of  her  supplication. 

So  then  it  is  we  have  dealings  with  Mrs.  Meakin 
and  her  greengrocery  business  in  Fetter  Lane.  This 
little  shop,  with  such  generous  show  of  brilliant  col- 
ours in  the  midst  of  its  drab  grey  surroundings,  is, 
part  of  the  atmosphere,  all  part  of  this  fairy-tale 
romance  which  began  on  the  eighteenth  of  March 
— oh,  how  many  years  ago?     Before  Kingsway  w»« 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    17 

built,  before  Holywell  Street  bit  the  dust  in  which  it 
had  grovelled  for  so  long. 

And  so,  I  venture,  that  it  is  well  you  should  see 
this  small  shop  of  Mrs.  Meakin's,  with  its  splashes 
of  orange  and  red,  its  daubs  of  crimson  and  yellow 
■ — see  it  in  your  mind's  eye — see  it  when  the  shad- 
ows of  the  houses  fall  on  it  in  the  morning,  when 
the  sun  touches  it  at  mid-day — when  the  double  gas 
jet  illuminates  it  at  night,  for  you  will  never  see 
it  in  real  life  now.  Mrs.  Meakin  gave  up  the  busi- 
ness a  year  or  so  ago.  She  went  to  live  in  the  coun- 
try, and  there  she  has  a  kitchen  garden  of  her  own ; 
there  she  grows  her  own  cabbages,  her  own  pota- 
toes and  her  own  beetroot.  And  her  face  is  still 
like  an  apple — an  older  apple  to  be  sure — an  apple 
that  has  lain  in  the  straw  in  a  large  roomy  loft, 
lain  there  all  through  the  winter  and — been  forgot- 
ten, left  behind. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHAT    TO   CALL    A    HERO 

John  Geey  is  scarcely  the  name  for  a  hero;  not 
the  sort  of  name  you  would  choose  of  your  own  free 
will  if  the  telling  of  a  fairy  story  was  placed  un- 
reservedly in  your  hands.  If  every  latitude  were 
offered  you,  quite  possibly  you  would  select  the 
name  of  Raoul  or  Rudolfe — some  name,  at  least,  that 
had  a  ring  in  it  as  it  left  the  tongue.  They  say, 
however,  that  by  any  other  name  a  rose  would  smell 
as  sweet.  Oh — but  I  cannot  believe  that  is  true — 
good  heavens !  think  of  the  pleasure  you  would  lose 
if  you  had  to  call  it  a  turnip! 

And  yet  I  lose  no  pleasure,  no  sense  of  mine  is 
jarred  when  I  call  my  hero — John  Grey.  But  if 
I  do  lose  no  pleasure,  it  is  with  a  very  good  reason. 
It  is  because  I  have  no  other  alternative.  John 
Grey  was  a  real  person.  He  lived.  He  lived,  too, 
over  that  identical  little  greengrocer's  shop  of  Mrs. 
Meakin's  in  Fetter  Lane  and,  though  there  was  a 
private  side  entrance  from  the  street,  he  often 
passed  through  the  shop  in  order  to  smell  the  whole- 
some smell  of  good  mother  earth,  to  look  at  the 
rosy  cheeks  of  the  apples,  to  wish  he  was  in  the 
country,  and  to  say  just  a  few  words  to  the  good 
lady  of  the  shop. 

To  the  rest  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  house,  even 
to  Mrs.  Meakin  herself,  he  was  a  mystery.     They 

18 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     19 

never  quite  understood  why  he  lived  there.  The 
woman  who  looked  after  his  rooms,  waking  him  at 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  making  his  cup  of 
coffee,  lingering  with  a  duster  in  his  sitting-room 
until  he  was  dressed,  then  lingering  over  the  making 
of  his  bed  in  the  bedroom  until  it  was  eleven  o'clock 
— the  time  of  her  departure — even  she  was  reticent 
about  him. 

There  is  a  reticence  amongst  the  lower  classes 
which  is  a  combination  of  ignorance  of  facts  and  a 
supreme  lack  of  imagination.  This  was  the  reti- 
cence of  Mrs.  Rowse.  She  knew  nothing;  she  could 
invent  nothing;  so  she  said  nothing.  They  plied 
her  with  questions  in  vain.  He  received  a  lot  of 
letters,  she  said,  some  with  crests  on  the  envelopes. 
She  used  to  look  at  these  in  wonder  before  she 
brought  them  into  his  bedroom.  They  might  have 
been  coronets  for  the  awe  in  which  she  held  them; 
but  in  themselves  they  explained  nothing,  merely 
added,  in  fact,  to  the  mystery  which  surrounded  him. 
Who  was  he.''  What  was  he.''  He  dressed  well — 
not  always,  but  the  clothes  were  there  had  he  liked 
to  wear  them.  Three  times  a  week,  sometimes  more, 
sometimes  less,  he  donned  evening  dress,  stuck  an 
opera  hat  on  his  head  and  Mrs.  Meakin  would  see 
him  pass  down  the  Lane  in  front  of  her  shop.  If 
she  went  to  the  door  to  watch  him,  which  quite  fre- 
quently she  did,  it  was  ten  chances  to  one  that  he 
would  stop  a  passing  hansom,  get  into  it,  and  drive 
away.  The  good  lady  would  watch  it  with  her  eyes 
as  it  wheeled  round  into  Holbom,  and  then,  return- 
ing to  her  backless  chair,  exclaim: 


20    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Well — my   word — he's   a  puzzle,  he   is — there's 

no  tellin'  what  he  mightn't  be  In  disguise "  by 

which  she  conveyed  to  herself  and  anyone  who  was 
there  to  listen,  so  wrapt,  so  entangled  a  sense  of 
mystery  as  would  need  the  entire  skill  of  Scotland 
Yard  to  unravel. 

Then,  finally,  the  rooms  themselves,  which  he  oc- 
cupied— their  furnishing,  their  decoration — the  last 
incomprehensible  touch  was  added  with  them.  Mrs. 
Meakin,  Mrs.  Brown,  the  wife  of  the  theatre 
cleaner  on  the  second  floor,  Mrs.  Morrell,  the  wife 
of  the  plumber  on  the  third  floor,  they  had  all  seen 
them,  all  marvelled  at  the  rows  of  brass  candle- 
sticks, the  crucifixes  and  the  brass  Incense  burners, 
the  real  pictures  on  the  walls — pictures,  mind  you, 
that  were  painted,  not  copied — the  rows  upon  rows 
of  books,  the  collection  of  old  glass  on  the  mantle- 
piece,  the  collection  of  old  china  on  the  piano,  the 
carpet — real  velvet  pile — and  the  furniture  all  solid 
oak,  with  old  brass  fittings  which,  so  Mrs.  Rows<? 
told  them,  he  insisted  upon  having  kept  as  bright 
as  the  brass  candlesticks  themselves.  They  had  seen 
all  this,  and  they  had  wondered,  wondered  why  a 
gentleman  who  could  furnish  rooms  in  such  a  man- 
ner, who  could  put  on  evening  dress  at  least  three 
times  a  week — evening  dress,  if  you  please,  that 
was  not  hired,  but  his  own — ^who  could  as  often 
drive  away  in  a  hansom,  presumably  up  West,  why 
he  should  choose  to  live  In  such  a  place  as  Fetter 
Lane,  over  a  greengrocer's  shop,  in  rooms  the  rent 
of  which  could  not  possibly  be  more  than  thirty 
pounds  a  year. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    21 

To  them,  it  remained  a  mystery;  but  surely  to 
you  who  read  this   it  is  no  mystery  at  all. 

John  Grey  was  a  writer,  a  journalist,  a  driver  of 
the  pen,  a  business  which  brings  with  it  more  re- 
sponsibilities than  its  remuneration  can  reasonably 
afford.  There  is  no  real  living  to  be  made  by  Kter- 
ature  alone,  if  you  have  any  ambitions  and  any 
respect  for  them.  Most  people  certainly  have  am- 
bitions, but  their  respect  for  them  is  so  inconsider- 
able when  compared  with  their  desire  of  reward,  that 
they  only  keep  them  alive  by  talking  of  them.  These 
are  the  people  who  know  thoroughly  the  meaning 
of  that  word  Art,  and  can  discuss  it  letter  for  let- 
ter, beginning  with  the  capital  first. 

But  to  have  ambitions  and  to  live  up  to  them  is 
only  possible  to  the  extreme  idealist — a  man  Avho, 
seeing  God  in  everything,  the  world  has  not  yet 
learnt  or  perhaps  forgotten  to  cater  for. 

So  far  everything  is  utilitarian — supplying  the 
needs  of  the  body  which  can  only  see  God  in  con- 
secrated wine,  and  so  it  is  that  wise  men  build 
churches  for  fools  to  pray  in — the  wise  man  in  this 
world  being  he  who  grows  rich. 

This,  then,  Is  the  solution  to  the  mystery  of  John 
Grey.  He  was  an  idealist — the  very  type  of  person 
to  live  in  a  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense,  where  the 
rarest  things  in  the  world  cost  nothing  and  the 
most  sordid  necessities  are  dear.  For  example,  the 
rent  of  number  thirty-nine  was  a  gross  exactment 
upon  his  purse.  He  could  ill  afford  that  thirty 
pounds  a  year.  He  could  ill  afford  the  meals  which 
sometimes  hunger  compelled  him  to  pay  for.     But 


22     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

when  he  bought  a  piece  of  brass — the  little  brass 
man,  for  example,  an  old  seal,  that  was  of  no  use  to 
anybody  in  the  world,  and  only  stood  passively 
inert  upon  his  mantel-piece — the  price  of  it  was  as 
nothing  when  compared  with  the  cheap  and  vulgar 
necessities  of  existence. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  Fetter  Lane 
and  its  environs  constitute  the  spires,  the  roofs  and 
domes  of  that  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense.  It  is 
not  so.  Far  away  East,  on  the  breast  of  the  Adri- 
atic, that  wonderful  City  lies.  And  we  shall  come  to 
it — we  shall  come  to  it  all  too  soon. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   BALLAD-MONGER— FETTER   LANE 

In  Kensington  Gardens,  you  will  find  romance. 
Many  a  real,  many  a  legendary,  person  has  found 
it  there.  It  will  always  be  found  there  so  long 
as  this  great  City  of  London  remains  a  hive  for  the 
millions  of  human  bees  that  pass  in  and  out  of  its 
doors,  swarming  or  working,  idling  or  pursuing 
in  silent  and  unconscious  obedience  to  a  law 
which  not  one  of  them  will  ever  live  to  under- 
stand. 

Why  it  should  be  Kensington  Gardens,  more  than 
any  other  place  of  the  kind,  is  not  quite  possible  of 
explanation.  Why  not  Regent's  Park,  or  St. 
James's  Park?  Why  not  those  little  gardens  on 
the  Embankment  where  the  band  plays  in  the  late 
mornings  of  summer  and  romances  certainly  do  find 
a  setting?  Why  not  any  of  these?  But  no — Ken- 
sington Gardens  rule  par  excellence,  and  there  is  no 
spot  in  this  vast  acreage  of  humanity  to  touch 
them. 

You  will  see  there  the  romances  that  begin  from 
both  ends  of  a  perambulator  and,  from  that  on- 
wards, Romance  in  all  its  countless  periods,  infinitely 
more  numerous  than  the  seven  ages  of  man ;  for 
Romance  is  more  wonderful  than  just  life.     It  has  a 

23 


24    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

thousand  more  variations,  it  plays  a  thousand  mora 
tricks  with  the  understanding.  Life  is  real,  they  tell 
us — ^Life  is  earnest;  but  Romance  is  all  that  is  un- 
real besides ;  it  is  everything  that  is  and  is  not, 
everything  that  has  been  and  will  be,  and  you  will 
find  some  of  the  strangest  examples  of  it  under  the 
boughs  of  those  huge  elms,  on  those  uncomfortable 
little  penny  scats  in  Kensington  Gardens. 

When  those  rooms  of  his  in  Fetter  Lane  became 
unbearable,  John  Grey  would  betake  himself  to  the 
Gardens,  sitting  by  the  round  Pond  where  the  great 
ships  make  their  perilous  voyages,  or  he  would  find 
a  seat  under  the  trees  near  that  little  one-storyed 
house  which  always  shows  so  brave  a  blaze  of  colour 
in  the  flower  beds  that  circle  it  round. 

Who  lives  in  that  little  house  .^^  Of  course,  every- 
body knows — well,  everybody.''  I  confess,  I  do  not. 
But  the  rest  of  the  world  does,  and  so  what  is  the 
good  of  letting  one's  imagination  run  a-riot  when 
the  first  policeman  would  cheerfully  give  one  the  in- 
formation. But  if  your  imagination  did  run  riot, 
think  of  the  tales  you  could  tell  yourself  about  the 
owner  of  that  little  house  in  Kensington  Gardens ! 
I  have  never  asked  a  policeman,  so  I  am  at  liberty 
to  do  what  I  like.  It  is  really  the  best  way  in  this 
world;  so  much  more  interesting  than  knowledge. 
Knowledge,  after  all,  is  only  knowing  things,  facts, 
which  next  year  may  not  be  facts  at  all.  Facts  die. 
But  when  you  imagine,  you  create  something  which 
can  live  forever.  The  whole  secret  of  the  matter 
being  that  its  life  depends  on  you,  not  on  Circum- 
stance. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    25 

One  Friday,  three  weeks  or  more  after  the  slender 
incident  of  the  last  candle  in  the  Sardinia  St. 
chapel,  those  rooms  in  number  '39  Fetter  Lane 
became  unbearable.  When  they  did  that,  they 
got  very  small;  the  walls  closed  in  together  and 
there  was  no  room  to  move.  Even  the  sounds  in 
the  street  had  no  meaning.  They  became  so  loud 
and  jarring  that  they  lost  meaning   altogether. 

Moreover,  on  Friday,  the  clarionet  player  came. 
It  was  his  day ;  nothing  could  alter  that.  If  the 
calendar  had  not  been  moved  on  for  weeks  together 
— and  some  calendars  do  suffer  in  that  way — John 
at  least  knew  the  Friday  of  the  week.  It  is  an 
ill  wind,  you  know — even  when  it  is  that  which  is 
blown  through  the  reed  of  a  clarionet. 

But  on  this  particular  morning,  the  clarionet 
player  was  insufferable. 

There  is  a  day  in  nearly  every  week  on  which  the 
things  which  one  has  grown  accustomed  to,  the 
sounds  that  one  listens  to  without  hearing,  the 
sights  that  one  looks  at  without  seeing,  become  bla- 
tant and  jarring.  It  is  then  that  we  hear  these 
sounds  twice  as  loudly  as  we  should,  that  we  see 
those  things  twice  as  vividly  as  they  are.  It  is  then 
that  the  word  "  unbearable  "  comes  charged  with  the 
fullest  of  its  meaning.  And  just  such  a  day  was 
this  Friday  in  the  middle  of  April — it  does  not  mat- 
ter how  many  years   ago. 

John  had  been  working.  He  was  writing  a  short 
story — a  very  tricksy  thing  to  try  and  do.  It  was 
nearly  finished,  the  room  was  getting  smaller  and 
smaller ;  the  sounds  in  the  street  were  becoming  more 


26    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

and  more  insistent.  A  barrel  organ  had  just  moved 
away,  leaving  a  rent  of  silence  in  all  the  noise  of 
traffic,  a  rent  of  silence  which  was  almost  as  un- 
bearable as  the  confused  clattering  of  sounds ;  and 
then  the  clarionet  player  struck  up  his  tune. 

"Oh,  Charlie,  he's  my  darling,  my  darling,  my  darling — 
Oh,  Charlie,  he's  my  darling,  my  young  Chevalier." 

This  was  one  of  the  only  four  tunes  he  knew. 
You  may  readily  guess  the  rest.  He  always  played 
them  through,  one  after  the  other,  in  never-varying 
order.  Charlie,  he's  my  darling — the  Arethusa — 
Sally  in  our  Alley  and  Come  Lasses  and  Lads.  He 
was  a  ballad-monger.  He  looked  a  ballad-monger — 
only  he  was  a  ballad-monger  on  the  clarionet.  John 
Leech  has  drawn  him  over  and  over  again  in  the 
long  ago  pages  of  Punch;  drawn  him  with  his 
baggy  trousers  that  crease  where  they  were  never 
intended  to,  with  his  faded  black  frock  coat  that 
was  never  cut  for  the  shoulders  it  adorned,  with 
every  article  of  clothing,  which  the  picture  told  you 
he  would  wear  to  the  end  of  his  days,  inherited  from 
a  generous  charity  that  had  only  disposed  of  its 
gifts  in  the  last  moments  of  decay.  ' 

"Oh,  Charlie,  he's  my  darling,  my  darling,  my  darling — ^ 

He  brought  such  a  minor  tone  into  it  all;  it 
might  have  been  a  dirge.  It  was  as  he  sang  it.  For 
these  ballad-mongers  are  sad  creatures.  Theirs  is 
a  hard,  a  miserable  life,  and  it  all  comes  out  in  their 
music. 

The  unhappy  individual  with  a  musical  instru- 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    27 

ment  who  stands  on  the  curbstone  in  the  pouring 
rain  can  find  some  depressing  note  to  dwell  on  in  the 
liveliest  of  tunes.  Art  is  most  times  only  the  cry 
of  the  individual. 

When  the  clarionet  player  began,  John  shut  up 
his  book,  rose  from  his  chair,  and  went  to  the  win- 
dow. The  windows  wanted  cleaning.  It  only  costs 
a  sliilling  for  four  windows — the  difficulty  is  some- 
times to  find  the  man  to  do  it — more  often  the  dif- 
ficulty is  to  find  the  shilling.  There  is  generally  a 
man  at  the  first  street  corner,  but  never  a  coin  of 
the  realm. 

Someone  threw  a  penny  into  the  street  from  an 
upper  window.  The  music  stopped  with  a  jerk. 
The  ballad-monger  chased  the  rolling  coin  to  the 
very  edge  of  a  drain,  then  stood  erect  with  a  red 
and  grateful  face. 

He  licked  his  lips,  put  the  penny  in  his  pocket 
and  began  again.  That  penny  had  insured  another 
five  minutes  at  least.  The  sun  was  burning  down 
into  the  street.  John  got  his  hat,  picked  up  his 
book  and  went  downstairs.  Kensington  Gardens 
was  the  only  place  left  in  the  world. 

Outside,  he  passed  the  ballad-monger  as  he  was 
shaking  the  moisture  out  of  his  reed.  No  wonder  it 
is  a  thirsty  business,  this  playing  on  the  clarionet. 
John  was  not  in  the  mood  to  appreciate  that  very 
necessary  clearing  of  the  instrument.  At  that  mo- 
ment all  ballad-mongers  were  unnecessary,  and  their 
habits  loathsome.     He  stopped. 

"  Do  you  know  no  other  tunes,"  he  asked,  "  than 
those  four  you  play  here  every  Friday.?  " 


28     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  No,  sir."  His  voice  was  very  deferential  and 
as  sad  as  his  music. 

"  Well — don't  you  Imagine  we  must  all  be  very 
tired  of  them  ?  " 

"  I  often  think  that,  sir.  I  often  think  that.  But 
you  only  hear  them  every  Friday." 

"You  mean  you  hear  them  every  day  of  the 
week?  " 

"That  Is  what  I  mean,  sir." 

There  Is  always  the  other  person's  point  of  view. 
You  learn  that  as  you  go  along,  and.  In  the  street, 
you  will  learn  It  as  quickly  as  anywhere.  Xhe  man 
who  runs  into  you  on  the  pavement  Is  going  in  his 
direction  as  well  as  you  in  yours,  and  it  Is  always 
a  nice  point  to  decide  whether  you  ran  into  him  or 
he  into  you.  In  any  case,  you  may  be  certain  that 
he  has  his  opinion  on  it. 

John  smiled. 

**  And  you're  sick  of  them  too,  eh  ?  " 

The  ballad-monger  fitted  his  mouthpiece?  care- 
fully on  to  the  instrument  that  played  the  golden 
tunes. 

"  Well,  I've  what  you  might  call  passed  that 
stage,  sir.  They're  In  the  blood,  as  you  might  say, 
by  this  time.  They're  always  going  on.  When  I'm 
asleep,  I  hear  bands  playing  them  in  the  street.  If 
it  Isn't  *  Arethusa,'  it's  *  Come  Lasses  and  Lads,' 
or  *  Sally  in  Our  Alley.'  They  keep  going  on. 
— and  sometimes  It's  shocking  to  hear  the  way  they 
play  them.  You  almost  might  say  that's  how  I 
earned  the  money  that  people  give  me,  sir — not  by 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    29 

playing  them  on  this  instrument  here — I  don't  mind 
that  so  much.  It's  the  playing  them  in  my  head — 
that's  the  job  I  ought  to  get  paid  for." 

John  looked  at  him.  The  man  had  a  point  of 
view.  He  could  see  the  nicer  side  of  a  matter. 
There  are  not  so  very  many  people  who  can.  The 
predominant  idea  when  he  came  into  the  street,  of 
telhng  the  man  he  was  a  nuisance,  vanished  from 
John's  mind.  He  felt  in  his  pockets.  There  lay 
one  sixpence.  He  jSngered  it  for  a  moment,  then 
brought  it  out. 

"  Buy  yourself  a  penny  score  of  another  tune," 
he  said,  "  and  let's  hear  it  next  Friday.  It  may 
drive  the  others  out." 

The  man  took  it,  looked  at  him,  but  said  no  word 
of  thanks.  No  words  are  so  obsequious.  No  words 
can  so  spoil  a  gift.  John  walked  away  with  a  sense 
of  respect. 

At  the  top  of  the  Lane  he  remembered  that  he 
had  no  penny  to  pay  for  his  chair  in  Kensington 
Gardens.  What  was  to  be  done.?  He  walked  back 
again.  The  ballad-monger  was  at  the  last  bars 
of  the  "  Arethusa." 

He  looked  round  when  he  had  finished. 

John  stammered.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he  was 
begging  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  and  realised 
what  an  onerous  profession  it  must  be. 

*'  Would  you  mind  sparing  me  a  penny  out  of 
that  sixpence  ?  "  he  asked ;  and  to  make  it  sound  a 
little  bit  better,  he  added :    "  I've  run  rather  short." 

The  man  produced  the  sixpence  immediately. 


80    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  You'd  better  take  it  all,  sir,"  he  said  quickly. 
**  You'll  want  it  more  than  I  shall." 

jJohn  shook  his  head. 

"  Give  me  the  penny,"  said  he,  "  that  you  caught 
at  the  edge  of  the  drain." 


CHAPTER  VI 
OF   KENSINGTON   GARDENS 

So  strange  a  matter  is  this  journey  to  the  City  of 
[Beautiful  Nonsense,  that  one  cannot  be  blamed  if,  at 
times,  one  takes  the  wrong  turning,  finds  oneself  in 
the  cul  de  sac  of  a  digression  and  is  compelled  to 
retrace  one's  steps.  It  was  intended  with  the  best 
of  good  faith  that  the  last  chapter  should  be  of 
Kensington  Gardens.  Quite  honestly  it  began  with 
that  purpose.  In  Kensington  Gardens,  you  will  find 
Romance.  What  could  be  more  open  and  above- 
board  than  that.''  Then  up  starts  a  ballad-monger 
out  of  nowhere  and  he  has  to  be  reckoned  with  be- 
fore another  step  of  the  way  can  be  taken. 

But  now  we  can  proceed  with  our  journey  to  that 
far  city  that  lies  so  slumberously  on  the  breast  of 
the  Adriatic. 

If  you  live  in  Fetter  Lane,  these  are  your  instruc- 
tions. Walk  straight  up  the  Lane  into  Holborn; 
take  your  first  turning  on  the  left  and  continue  di- 
rectly through  Oxford  Street  and  Bayswater,  until 
you  reach  Victoria  Gate  in  the  Park  railings.  This 
you  enter.     This  is  the  very  portal  of  the  way. 

'Twas  precisely  this  direction  taken  by  John 
Grey  on  that  Friday  morning  in  April,  in  such  a 
year  as  history  seems  reticent  to  afford. 

There  is  a  means  of  travelling  in  London,  you 
31 


32     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

know,  which  is  not  exactly  in  accordance  with  the 
strict  principles  of  honesty,  since  it  is  worked  on 
the  basis  of  false  pretences ;  and  if  a  hero  of  a  mod- 
ern day  romance  should  stoop  to  employ  it  as  a 
means  of  helping  him  on  his  journey  to  the  City  of 
Beautiful  Nonsense,  he  must,  on  two  grounds,  be  ex- 
cused. The  first  ground  is,  that  he  has  but  a  penny 
in  his  pocket,  which  is  needed  for  the  chair  in  Ken- 
sington Gardens ;  the  second,  that  most  human  of 
all  excuses  which  allows  that,  when  Circumstance 
drives,  a  man  may  live  by  his  wits,  so  long  as  he 
takes  the  risk  of  the  whipping. 

This,  then,  is  the  method,  invented  by  John  Grey 
in  an  inspired  moment  of  poverty.  There  may  be 
hundreds  of  others  catching  inspiration  from  the 
little  street  arabs,  who  have  invented  it  too.  Most 
probably  there  are,  and  they  may  be  the  very  first 
to  exclaim  against  the  flippant  treatment  of  so  dis- 
honest a  practice.  However  that  may  be,  out  of 
his  own  wits  John  Grey  conceived  this  felonious 
means  of  inexpensive  travelling — absolutely  the  most 
inexpensive  I  ever  knew. 

You  are  going  from  Holbom  to  Victoria  Gate  in 
the  Park  railings — very  well.  You  must  mount  the 
first  'bus  which  you  see  going  in  the  direction  you 
require;  grasp  the  railings — and  mount  slowly  to 
the  top,  having  first  ascertained  that  the  conductor 
himself  is  on  the  roof.  By  the  time  you  have  reached 
the  seat  upstairs,  if  you  have  done  it  In  a  masterly 
and  approved-of  fashion,  the  'bus  has  travelled  at 
least  twenty  yards  or  so.  Then,  seeing  the  con- 
ductor, you  ask  him  politely  if  his  'bus  goes  in  a 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    33 

direction,  which  you  are  confident  it  does  not.  This, 
for  example,  is  the  conversation  that  will  take  place. 

"Do  you  go  to  Paddington  Station?" 

"  No,  sir,  we  don't ;  we  go  straight  to  Shepherd's 
Bush." 

"  But  I  thought  these  green  'busses  went  to  Pad- 
dington ?  " 

"  There  are  green  'busses  as  does,  but  we  don't." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  I  know  now,  haven't  they  a 
yellow  stripe — you  have  a  red  one." 

"That's  right." 

You  rise  slowly,  regretfully. 

"  Oh,  then  I'm  sorry,"  and  you  begin  slowly  to 
descend  the  stairs. 

"  But  we  go  by  the  Edgware  Road,  and  you  can 
get  a  'bus  to  Paddington  there,"  says  the  conductor. 

For  a  moment  or  two  longer  you  stand  on  the 
steps  and  try  ineffectually — or  effectually,  it  does 
not  matter  which,  so  long  as  you  take  your  time 
over  it — to  point  out  to  him  why  you  prefer  the 
'bus  which  goes  direct  to  its  destination,  rather  than 
the  one  which  does  not ;  then  you  descend  with 
something  like  a  hundred  yards  or  so  of  your  jour- 
ney accomplished.  Repeat  this  ad  lib  till  the  jour- 
ney is  fully  complete  and  you  will  find  that  you 
still  possess  your  penny  for  the  chair  in  Kensing- 
ton Gardens.  The  honesty  which  is  amongst  thieves 
compels  you — for  the  sake  of  the  poor  horses  who 
have  not  done  you  nearly  so  much  harm  as  that 
conductor  may  have  done — to  mount  and  descend 
the  vehicle  while  in  motion.  This  is  the  unwritten 
etiquette   of  the  practice.      It   also   possesses   that 


34    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

advantage  of  prohibiting  all  fat  people  from  its 
enjoyment,  whose  weight  on  the  'bus  would  percep- 
tibly increase  the  labour  of  the  willing  animals. 

Beyond  this,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said.  The 
method  must  be  left  to  your  own  conscience,  with 
this  subtle  criticism  upon  your  choice,  that  if  you 
refuse  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it,  it  will  be  be- 
cause you  appreciate  the  delight  of  condemning 
those  who  have.  So  you  stand  to  gain  anyhow  by 
the  possession  of  the  secret.  For  myself,  since  John 
Grey  told  me  of  it,  I  do  both — strain  a  sheer  de- 
light in  a  condemnation  of  those  who  use  it,  and  use 
it  myself  on  all  those  occasions  when  I  have  but  a 
penny  in  my  pocket  for  the  chair  in  Kensington 
Gardens.     Of  course,  you  must  pay  for  the  chair. 

By  this  method  of  progress,  then,  John  Grey 
reached  Kensington  Gardens  on  that  Friday  morn- 
ing— that  Friday  morning  in  April  which  was  to 
prove  so  eventful  in  the  making  of  this  history. 

The  opening  of  the  month  had  been  too  cold  to 
admit  of  their  beginning  the  trade  in  tea  under  the 
fat  mushroom  umbrellas — that  afternoon  tea  which 
you  and  oh,  I  don't  know  how  many  sparrows  and 
pigeons,  all  eat  to  your  heart's  content  for  the  mod- 
est sum  of  one  shilling.  But  they  might  have  plied 
their  trade  that  day  with  some  success.  There  was 
a  warm  breath  of  the  Spring  in  every  little  pufF 
of  wind  that  danced  down  the  garden  paths.  The 
scarlet  tulips  nodded  their  heads  to  it,  the  daffodils 
courteseyed,  bowed  and  swayed,  catching  the  infec- 
tion of  the  dancer's  step.  When  Spring  comes  glad- 
somely  to  this  country  of  ours,  there  is  no  place 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    35 

in  the  world  quite  like  it.     Even  Browning,  in  the 
heart  of  the  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense,  must  write: 

**  Oh  to  be  in  England, 
Now  that  April's  there." 

From  Fetter  Lane  to  the  flower-walk  in  Kensing- 
ton Gardens,  it  is  a  far  cry.  Ah,  you  do  not  know 
what  continents  might  lie  between  that  wonderful 
flower-walk  and  Fetter  Lane.  Why,  there  are  people 
in  the  darksome  little  alleys  which  lie  off  that  neigh- 
bourhood of  Fleet  Street,  who  have  never  been  fur- 
ther west  than  the  Tottenham  Court  Road!  Fetter 
Lane,  the  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and  the  flower- 
walk  in  Kensington  Gardens !  It  may  be  only  three 
miles  or  so,  but  just  as  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
time  in  the  ratio  of  Eternity,  so  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  distance  in  the  ratio  of  Space.  There  is 
only  contrast — and  suffering.  They  measure  every- 
thing. 

John  made  his  way  first  to  the  flower-walk,  just 
for  the  sight  and  the  scent  of  those  wonderful  grow- 
ing things  that  bring  their  treasures  of  inimitable 
colour  up  out  of  the  secret  breast  of  the  dull  brown 
earth.  Where,  in  that  clod  of  earth,  which  does  but 
soil  the  hands  of  him  who  touches  it,  does  the  tulip 
get  its  red.?  Has  the  Persian  Poet  guessed  the 
secret?  Is  it  the  blood  of  a  buried  Caesar?  En- 
hance it  by  calling  it  a  mystery — all  the  great  things 
of  the  world  are  that.  Wherever  tihe  tulip  does  get 
its  red,  it  is  a  brave  thing  to  look  at  after  the  dull, 
smoky  bricks  of  the  houses  in  Fetter  Lane. 


S6    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

John  stood  at  the  top  of  the  walk  and  filled  his 
eyes  with  the  varied  colours.  There  were  tulips  red, 
tulips  yellow,  tulips  purple  and  scarlet  and  mauve. 
The  little  hunchback  was  already  there  painting 
them,  hugging  up  close  to  his  easel,  taking  much 
more  into  the  heart  of  him  than  he  probably  ever 
puts  down  upon  his  canvas. 

He  comes  every  season  of  every  year,  that  little 
hunchback,  and  Spring  and  Summer,  and  Autumn 
and  Winter,  he  paints  in  Kensington  Gardens ;  and 
Spring  and  Summer,  and  Autumn  and  Winter,  I 
have  no  doubt  he  will  continue  to  paint  the  Gardens 
that  he  loves.  And  then  one  day,  the  Gardens  will 
miss  him.  He  will  come  no  more.  The  dull  brown 
earth  will  have  taken  him  as  it  takes  the  bulb  of  a 
tulip,  and  perhaps  out  of  his  eyes — those  eyes  which 
have  been  drinking  in  the  colours  of  the  flowers  for 
so  long,  some  tulip  will  one  day  get  its  red. 

Surely  there  cannot  be  libel  in  such  a  statement 
as  this?  We  must  all  die.  The  little  hunchback,  if 
he  reads  this,  will  not  approach  me  for  damages, 
unless  he  were  of  the  order  of  Christian  Scientists 
or  some  such  sect,  who  defy  the  ravages  of  Time. 
And  how  could  he  be  that?  He  must  have  seen  the 
tulips  wither. 

From  the  flower-walk,  John  made  his  way  to  the 
round  pond.  The  ships  were  sailing.  Sturdy 
mariners  with  long,  thin,  bamboo  poles  were  launch- 
ing their  craft  in  the  teeth  of  the  freshening  breeze. 
[A.h,  those  brave  ships,  and  those  sturdy  men  with 
their  young  blue  eyes,  searching  across  that  vast 
expanse  of  water  for  the  return  of  the  Daisy  or  the 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    37 

Kittizvake  or  some  such  vessel  with  some  such  fan- 
ciful name ! 

John  took  a  chair  to  watch  them.  A  couple  of 
hoary  sailors — men  who  had  vast  dealings  with  ships 
and  traffic  on  deep  waters — passed  by  him  with 
their  vessels  tucked  up  under  their  arms. 

"  I  sail  for  'Frisco  in  five  minutes,"  said  one — 
"  for  'Frisco  with  a  cargo  of  iron." 

"  What  do  you  use  for  iron  ?  "  asked  the  other, 
with  the  solemnity  that  such  cargo  deserved. 

"  My  sister  gave  me  some  of  her  hairpins,"  was 
the  stern  reply. 

This,  if  you  like  it,  is  romance !  Bound  for  'Frisco 
with  a  cargo  of  iron !  Think  of  it !  The  risk,  the 
peril,  the  enormous  fortune  at  stake !  His  sister's 
hairpins !  What  a  world,  what  a  City  of  Beautiful 
Nonsense,  if  one  could  only  believe  like  this ! 

John  spread  out  his  short  story  on  his  knee, 
looked  at  the  first  lines  of  it,  then  closed  it  with  dis- 
gust. What  was  the  good  of  writing  stories,  when 
such  adventures  as  these  were  afoot?  Perhaps  the 
little  hunchback  felt  that  too.  What  was  the  good 
of  painting  with  red  paint  on  a  smooth  canvas  when 
God  had  painted  those  tulips  on  the  rough  brown 
earth  .-^  Why  had  not  he  got  a  sister  who  would 
hazard  her  hairpins  in  his  keeping,  so  that  he  might 
join  in  the  stern  business  of  life  and  carry  cargoes 
of  iron  to  far-ofF  parts.? 

He  sat  idly  watching  the  good  ship  start  for 
'Frisco.  One  push  of  the  thin  bamboo  pole  and  it 
was  off — out  upon  the  tossing  of  the  waves.  A 
breath  of  Spring  air  blew  into  its  sails,  filled  them 


60036 


38    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

— with  the  scent  of  the  tulips,  perhaps — and  bore 
it  off  upon  its  voyage,  while  the  anxious  master, 
with  hands  shading  his  eyes,  watched  it  as  it  dipped 
over  the  horizon  of  all  possible  interference. 

Where  was  it  going  to  come  to  shore?  The  voy- 
age lasted  fully  five  minutes  and,  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, a  trade  wind  seizing  it — surely  it  must  be  a 
trade  wind  which  seizes  a  vessel  with  a  cargo  such 
as  this — it  was  bom  direct  for  the  shore  near  where 
John  was  sitting. 

The  captain  came  hurrying  along  the  beach  to  re- 
ceive it  and,  from  a  seat  under  the  elm  trees,  a  girl 
came  toward  him. 

"Do  you  think  it's  brought  them  safely.?"  she 
asked. 

He  looked  up  with  a  touch  of  manly  pride. 

**  The  Albatross  has  never  heaved  her  cargo  over- 
board yet,"  he  said  with  a  ringing  voice. 

So  this  was  the  sister.  From  that  wonderful  head 
of  hair  of  hers  had  come  the  cargo  of  the  good 
ship  Albatross.  She  turned  that  head  away  to  hide 
a  smile  of  amusement.  She  looked  in  John's  direc- 
tion.    Their  eyes  met. 

It  was  the  lady  of  the  heavy  fur  coat  who  had 
prayed  to  St.  Joseph  in  the  Sardinia  Street  chapel. 


CHAPTER  Vn 

THE    VOYAGE    OF    THE    GOOD    SHIP    ALBATROSS 

This  is  where  Destiny  and  the  long  arm  of  Coinci- 
dence play  a  part  in  the  making  of  all  Romance. 
One  quality  surely  there  must  be  in  such  matters, 
far  more  essential  than  that  happiness  ever  after 
which  the  sentimentalist  so  clamours  for.  That 
quality,  it  is,  of  Destiny,  which  makes  one  know 
that,  whatever  renunciation  and  despair  may  follow, 
such  things  were  meant  to  be.  Coincidence  com- 
bines to  make  them  so,  and,  you  may  be  sure,  for  a 
very  good  reason.  And  is  it  so  long  a  stretch  of 
the  arm  from  Sardinia  Street  Chapel  to  Kensington 
Gardens?  Hardly!  In  fiction,  and  along  the  high- 
road, perhaps  it  might  be;  but  then  this  is  not  fic- 
tion.    This  is  true. 

Romance  then — let  us  get  an  entirely  new  defini- 
tion for  it — is  a  chain  of  Circumstances  which  out 
of  the  infinite  chaos  links  two  living  things  together 
for  a  definite  end — that  end  which  is  a  pendant  upon 
the  chain  itself  and  may  be  a  heart  with  a  lock  of 
hair  inside,  or  it  may  be  a  cross,  or  a  dagger,  or  a 
crown — you  never  know  till  the  last  link  is  forged. 

When  he  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  lady  of  St. 
Joseph — so  he  had,  since  that  incident,  called  her 
in  his  mind — John  knew  that  Destiny  had  a  hand  in 
the  matter. 

He  told  me  afterwards 

"  You  only  meet  the  people  in  this  world  whomi 

39 


40    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

you  are  meant  to  meet.  Whether  you  want  to  meet 
them  or  not  is  another  matter,  and  has  no  power 
to  bribe  the  hand  of  Circumstance." 

He  was  generalising  certainly,  but  that  is  the 
cloak  under  which  a  man  speaks  of  himself. 

However  that  may  be,  and  whether  the  law  holds 
good  or  not,  they  met.  He  saw  the  look  of  recog- 
nition that  passed  across  her  eyes;  then  he  rose  to 
his  feet. 

The  knowledge  that  you  are  in  the  hands  of  Des- 
tiny gives  you  boldness.  John  marched  directly 
across  to  her  and  lifted  his  hat. 

"  My  name  is  Grey,"  he  said — "  John  Grey.  I'm 
taking  it  for  granted  that  St.  Joseph  has  already 
introduced  us  and  forgotten  to  tell  you  who  I  was. 
If  I  take  too  much  for  granted,  say  so,  I  shall 
perfectly  understand. 

Well,  what  could  she  say.?  You  may  tell  a  man 
that  he's  presumptuous;  but  hardly  when  he  pre- 
sumes like  this.  Besides,  there  was  Destiny  at  the 
back  of  him,  putting  the  words  into  his  mouth. 

She  smiled.     It  was  impossible  to  do  otherwise. 

"  Do  you  think  St.  Joseph  would  be  recognised 
in  our  society.?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  he.  "  St.  Joseph 
was  a  very  proper  man." 

They  turned  to  a  cry  of  the  master  mariner  as 
the  good  ship  Albatross  touched  the  beach.  Imme- 
diately she  was  unloaded  and  her  cargo  brought 
triumphantly  to  the  owner. 

"  This,"  said  John,  "  is  the  cargo  of  iron.  Then 
I  presume  we're  in  'Frisco. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    41 

*'  How  did  you  know  ?  "  she  asked. 

*'  I  heard  the  sailing  orders  given  in  the  Docks  at 
London  ten  minutes  ago." 

She  looked  down,  concealing  a  smile,  at  her 
brother,  then  at  John,  lastly  at  the  good  ship 
Albatross — beached  until  further  orders.  He 
watched  her.     She  was  making  up  her  mind. 

"  Ronald,"  said  she,  when  the  wandering  of  her 
eyes  had  found  decision,  "  this  is  a  friend  of  mine, 
Mr.  Grey." 

Ronald  held  out  a  homy  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir." 

Surely  that  settled  matters.?'  St.  Joseph  was 
approved  of.  She  had  said — this  is  a  friend  of 
mine. 

They  shook  hands  then  with  a  heavy  grip.  It  is 
the  recognised  way  with  those  who  go  down  to  the 
sea  in  ships. 

"  When  do  you  take  your  next  voyage  ?  "  asked 
jJohn. 

"  As  soon  as  we  can  ship  a  cargo  of  gravel." 

"  And  where  are  you  bound  for.?  " 

"  Port  of  Lagos — ^West  Africa." 

*'  Dangerous  country,  isn't  it.?  Fever.?  White 
man's  grave,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.?  " 

"  Those  are  the  orders,"  said  Ronald  staunchly, 
looking  up  to  his  sister  for  approval. 

"  I  suppose  you  couldn't  execute  a  secret  com- 
mission for  me,"  said  John.  He  laid  a  gentle  stress 
on  the  word  secret.  "  You  couldn't  carry  private 
papers  and  run  a  blockade  ?  " 

Private    papers!      Secret    commission!     Run     a 


42    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

blockade!  Why  the  good  ship  Albatross  was  just 
built  for  such  nefarious  trade  as  that. 

John  took  the  short  story  out  of  his  pocket. 

"  Well,  I  want  you  to  take  this  to  the  port  of 
Venice,"  said  he.  "  The  port  of  Venice  on  the  Adri- 
atic, and  deliver  it  yourself  into  the  hands  of  one — 
Thomas  Grey.  There  is  a  fortune  to  be  made  if  you 
keep  secret  and  talk  to  no  one  of  your  business. 
Are  you  willing  to  undertake  it  and  share  profits.'' " 

"  We'll  do  our  best,  sir,"  said  Ronald. 

Then  the  secret  papers  were  taken  aboard — off 
started  the  good  ship  Albatross. 

The  other  mariner  came  up  just  as  she  had  set 
sail. 

"  What  cargo  have  you  got  this  time  ?  "  he  whis- 
pered. 

Ronald  walked  away. 

"  Mustn't  tell,"  he  replied  sternly,  and  by  such 
ready  confession  of  mystery  laid  himself  open  to  all 
the  perils  of  attack.  That  other  mariner  must  know 
he  was  bound  on  secret  service,  and  perhaps  by 
playing  the  part  of  Thomas  Grey  on  the  other  side 
of  the  round  pond,  would  probably  be  admitted  into 
confidence.  There  is  no  knowing.  You  can  never 
be  sure  of  what  may  happen  in  a  world  of  romantic 
adventure. 

John  watched  their  departure  lest  his  eagerness 
to  talk  to  her  alone  should  seem  too  apparent.  Then 
he  turned,  suggested  a  seat  under  the  elm  trees  and, 
in  silence,  they  walked  across  the  grass  to  the  two 
little  penny  chairs  that  stood  expectantly  together. 

There  they  sat,  still  in  silence,  watching  the  peo- 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    4,3. 

pie  who  were  promenading  on  the  path  that  circles 
the  round  pond.  Nurses  and  babies  and  perambu- 
lators, there  were  countless  of  these,  for  in  the  gar- 
dens of  Kensington  the  babies  grow  like  the  tulips 
— rows  upon  rows  of  them,  in  endless  numbers.  Like 
the  tuhps,  too,  the  sun  brings  them  out  and  their 
gardeners  take  them  and  plant  them  under  the  trees. 
Every  second  passer-by  that  sunny  morning  in  April 
was  a  gardener  with  her  tulip  or  tulips,  as  the  case 
might  be;  some  red,  some  white,  some  just  in  bud, 
some  fully  blown.  Oh,  it  is  a  wonderful  place  for 
things  to  grow  in,  is  Kensington  Gardens. 

But  there  were  other  pedestrians  than  these. 
There  were  Darbys  and  Joans,  Edwards  and  An- 
gelinas. 

Then  there  passed  by  two  solemn  nuns  in  white, 
who  had  crosses  hanging  from  their  waists  and  wore 
high-heeled  shoes. 

The  lady  of  St.  Joseph  looked  at  John.  John 
looked  at  her. 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows  to  a  question. 

"Protestant?"  she  said. 

John  nodded  with  a  smile. 

That  broke  the  silence.  Then  they  talked.  They 
talked  first  of  St.  Joseph. 

*'  You  always  pray  to  St.  Joseph?  "  said  he. 

**  No — not  always — only  for  certain  things.  I'm 
awfully  fond  of  him,  but  St.  Cecilia's  my  saint.  I 
don't  like  the  look  of  St.  Joseph,  somehow  or  other. 
Of  course,  I  know  he's  awfully  good,  but  I  don't 
like  his  beard.  They  always  give  him  a  brown 
beard,  and  I  hate  a  man  with  a  brown  beard." 


44    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  I  saw  St.  Joseph  once  with  a  grey  beard,'*  said 
John. 

"  Grey.?    But  he  wasn't  old." 

"  No,  but  this  one  I  saw  was  grey.  It  was  in 
Ardmore,  a  wee  fishing  village  in  the  county  of 
Waterford,  in  Ireland.  Ah,  you  should  see  Ard- 
more. Heaven  comes  nearer  to  the  sea  there  than 
any  place  I  know." 

«  But  what  about  St.  Joseph?  " 

"  Oh,  St.  Joseph !  Well,  there  was  a  lady  there 
intent  upon  the  cause  of  temperance.  She  built  lit- 
tle temperance  cafes  all  about  the  country,  and  had 
the  pictures  of  Cruikshank's  story  of  the  Bottle, 
framed  and  put  on  all  the  walls.  To  propitiate 
the  Fates  for  the  cafe  in  Ardmore,  she  decided  also 
to  set  up  the  statue  of  St.  Daeclan,  their  patron 
saint  in  those  parts.  So  she  sent  up  to  Mulcahy's, 
in  Cork,  for  a  statue  of  St.  Daeclan.  Now  St. 
Daeclan,  you  know,  is  scarcely  in  popular  demand." 

"  I've  never  heard  of  him,"  said  the  lady  of  St. 
Joseph. 

"  Neither  had  I  till  I  went  to  Ardmore.  Well, 
anyhow,  Mulcahy  had  not  got  a  statue.  Should  he 
send  away  and  see  if  he  could  order  one.?  Certainly 
he  should  send  away.  A  week  later  came  the  reply 
There  is  not  a  statue  of  St.  Daeclan  to  be  procured 
anywhere.  Will  an  image  of  St.  Joseph  do  as 
well.?  It  would  have  to  do.  Very  well,  it  came — 
St.  Joseph  with  his  brown  beard. 

"  *  If  only  we  could  have  got  St.  Daeclan,'  they 
said  as  they  stood  in  front  of  it.  *  But  he's  too 
young  for  St.  Daeclan.  St.  Daeclan  was  an  old 
man.' 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    45 

"  I  suppose  It  did  not  occur  to  them  that  St.  Dae- 
clan  may  not  have  been  bom  old;  but  they  con- 
ceived of  a  notion  just  as  wise.  They  got  a  pot 
of  paint  from  Foley's,  the  provision  store,  and,  with 
judicious  applications,  they  made  grey  the  brown 
beard  of  St.  Joseph,  then,  washing  out  the  gold  let- 
ters of  his  name,  they  painted  in  place  of  them  the 
name  of  St.  Daeclan." 

The  lady  of  St.  Joseph  smiled. 

"  Are  you  making  this  up  ?  "  asked  she. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  then,  the  cafe  was  opened,  and  a  little  choir 
of  birds  from  the  chapel  began  to  sing,  and  all  the 
people  round  about  who  had  no  intention  to  be  tem- 
perate, but  loved  a  ceremony,  came  to  see  the  open- 
ing. They  trouped  into  the  little  hall  and  stood 
with  gaping  mouths  looking  at  that  false  image 
which  bore  the  superscription  of  St.  Daeclan,  and  the 
old  women  held  up  their  hands  and  they  said: 

"  Oh,  shure,  glory  be  to  God !  'tis  just  loike  the 
pore  man — it  is  indeed.  Faith,  I  never  want  to  sec 
a  better  loikeness  of  himself  than  that." 

John  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

**  And  there  he  stands  to  this  day,"  he  added — 
"  as  fine  an  example  of  good  faith  and  bad  painting 
as  I  have  ever  seen  in  my  life." 

"  What  a  delightful  little  story,"  she  said,  and 
she  looked  at  him  with  that  expression  in  the  eyes 
when  admiration  mingles  so  charmingly  with  bewild- 
erment that  one  is  compelled  to  take  them  both  as  a 
compliment. 

"  Do  you  know  you  surprise  me,"  she  added. 

"  So  I  see,"  said  he. 


46    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"You  see?" 

"In  your  eyes." 

"You  saw  that?" 

"  Yes,  you  were  wondering  how  I  came  to  be 
praying — probably  for  money — to  St.  Joseph — 
praying  in  an  old  blue  serge  suit  that  looked  as  if 
a  little  money  could  easily  be  spent  on  it,  and  yet 
can  afford  to  sit  out  here  in  the  morning  in  Ken- 
sington Gardens  and  tell  you  what  you  are  so  good 
as  to  call  a  delightful  little  story?  " 

"  That's  quite  true.     I  was  wondering  that." 

"  And  I,"  said  John,  "  have  been  wondering  just 
the  same  about  you." 

What  might  not  such  a  conversation  as  this  have 
led  to?  They  were  just  beginning  to  tread  upon 
that  virgin  soil  from  which  any  fruit  may  be  born. 
It  is  a  wonderful  moment  that,  the  moment  when 
two  personalities  just  touch.  You  can  feel  the  con- 
tact tingling  to  the  tips  of  your  fingers. 

What  might  they  not  have  talked  of  then?  She 
might  even  have  told  him  why  she  was  praying  to 
St.  Joseph,  but  then  the  master  mariner  returned, 
bearing  papers  in  his  hand. 

"  Are  you  one  Thomas  Grey?  "  said  he. 

"  I  am  that  man,"  replied  John. 

"  These  are  secret  papers  which  I  am  to  deliver 
into  your  hands.  There  is  a  fortune  to  be  made  if 
you  keep  secret.'* 

John  took  the  short  story. 

"  Secrecy  shall  be  observed,"  said  he. 


CHAPTER  Vin 

THE   FATEFUL  TICKET-PUNCHER 

The  master  of  the  good  ship  Albatross  departed, 
chartered  for  another  voyage  to  the  Port  of  Lagos 
with  his  cargo  of  gravel,  gathered  with  the  sweat 
of  the  brow  and  the  tearing  of  the  finger  nails  from 
the  paths  in  Kensington  Gardens. 

John  hid  the  short  story  away  and  lit  a  ciga- 
rette. She  watched  him  take  it  loose  from  his  waist- 
coat pocket.  Had  he  no  cigarette  case?  She 
watched  him  take  a  match — loose  also — from  the 
ticket  pocket  of  his  coat.  Had  he  no  match-box.? 
She  watched  him  strike  it  upon  the  sole  of  his  boot, 
believing  all  the  time  that  he  was  unaware  of  the 
direction  of  her  eyes. 

But  he  knew.  He  knew  well  enough,  and  took  as 
long  over  the  business  as  it  was  possible  to  be. 
When  the  apprehension  of  discovery  made  her  turn 
her  head,  he  threw  the  match  away.  Well,  it  was  a 
waste  of  time  then. 

"  I  thought,"  said  she  presently,  "  you  had  told 
me  your  name  was  -John.?  " 

«  So  it  is." 

"  Then  why  did  you  tell  Ronald  to  deliver  the 
papers  to  Thomas  Grey?  " 

"  That  is  my  father." 

"  And  does  he  live  in  Venice  ?  " 

What  a  wonderful  thing  is  curiosity  in  other  peo- 
47 


48     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

pie,  when  you  yourself  are  only  too  ready  to  di- 
vulge !  Loth  only  to  tell  her  it  all  too  quickly,  John 
readily  answered  all  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  he  lives  in  Venice,"  he  replied. 

"Always?" 

"  Always  now." 

She  gazed  into  a  distance  of  her  own — that  dis- 
tance in  which  nearly  every  woman  lives. 

"  What  a  wonderful  place  it  must  be  to  live  in," 
said  she. 

He  turned  his  head  to  look  at  her. 

"You've  never  been  there?" 

"  Never." 

"  Ah !  there's  a  day  in  your  life  yet  then.'* 

Her  forehead  wrinkled.  Ah,  it  may  not  sound 
pretty,  but  it  was.  The  daintiest  things  in  life 
are  not  to  be  written  in  a  sentence.  You  get  them 
sometimes  in  a  single  word;  but  oh,  that  word  is  so 
hard  to  find. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

**  The  day  you  go  to  Venice — if  ever  you  do  go 
— will  be  one  day  quite  by  itself  in  your  life.  You 
will  be  alive  that  day." 

"You  love  it?" 

She  knew  he  did.  That  was  the  attraction  in 
asking  the  question — to  hear  him  say  so.  There 
is  that  in  the  voice  of  one  confessing  to  the  emotion 
— for  whatever  object  it  may  happen  to  be — which 
can  thrill  the  ear  of  a  sensitive  listener.  A  sense 
of  envy  comes  tingling  with  it.  It  is  the  note  in 
the  voice,  perhaps.  You  may  hear  it  sometimes  in 
the  throat  of  a  singer — that  note  which  means  the 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    49 

passion,  the  love  of  something,  and  something  within 
you  thrills  in  answer  to  it. 

"  You  love  it  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  John — "  that's  more  than 
loving." 

"  What  does  your  father  do  there  ?  " 

*'  He's  an  artist — but  he  does  very  little  work 
now.     He's  too  old.     His  heart  is  weak,  also." 

"  Then  does  he  live  there  by  himself?  " 

"  Oh,  no — my  mother  lives  with  him.  They  have 
(Wonderful  old  rooms  in  the  Palazzo  Capello  in  the 
Rio  Marin.  She  is  old,  too.  Well — she's  over  sixty. 
They  didn't  marry  until  she  was  forty.  And  he's 
about  ten  years  older  than  she  is." 

"  Are  you  the  only  child  ?  " 

"  The  'only  child— yes." 

"  How  is  it  that  they  didn't  marry  until  your 
mother  was  forty  ?  " 

She  pattered  on  with  her  questions.  Having  ac- 
cepted him  as  a  friend,  the  next  thing  to  do  was  to 
get  to  know  all  about  him.  It  is  just  as  well,  in 
case  people  should  ask ;  but  in  this  huddle  of  houses 
where  one  knows  more  of  the  life  of  one's  next-door 
neighbour  than  one  ever  does  of  one's  friends,  it 
really  scarcely  matters.  She  thought  she  wanted  to 
know  because  she  ought  to  know.  But  that  was  not 
it  at  all.  She  had  to  know.  She  was  meant  to  know. 
There  is  a  difference. 

"Perhaps  I'm  being  too  inquisitive?"  she  sug- 
gested gently.  This  is  only  another  way  of  getting 
one's  question  answered.  You  might  call  it  the  ques- 
tion circumspect  and,  by  borrowing  from  another's 


50    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

wit,  mark  the  distinction  between  it  and  the  question 
direct.  But  it  is  not  so  much  the  name  that  mat- 
ters, as  its  effectiveness. 

In  a  moment,  John  was  all  apologies  for  his  si- 
lence. 

"  Inquisitive.?    No!    It's  only  the  new  sensation." 

"  What  new  sensation .''  " 

"  Somebody  wanting  to  know  something  about 
oneself.  On  the  other  side  of  the  street  where  I 
live,  there  resides  a  parrot;  and  every  Sunday  they 
put  him  outside  on  the  window-sill,  and  there  he 
keeps  calling  out — '  Do  you  want  to  know  who  I 
am?  Do  you  want  to  know  who  I  am?'  And 
crowds  of  little  boys  and  little  girls,  and  idle  men 
and  lazy  women,  stand  down  below  his  cage  in  the 
street  and  imitate  him  in  order  to  get  him  to  say  it 
again.  *Do  you  want  to  know  who  I  am,  Polly?' 
they  call  out.  And  oh,  my  goodness,  it's  so  like  life. 
They  never  reply — '  Who  are  you,  then  ?  '  But 
every  single  one  of  them  must  ask  him  if  he  wants 
to  know  who  they  are,  just  when  he's  longing  to 
tell  them  all  about  himself.    It  is  like  life  you  know." 

**  What  nice  little  stories  you  tell.  I  believe  you 
make  them  up  as  you  go  along — but  they're  quite 
nice.     So  that's  the  new  sensation?  " 

"  Yes — that's  it.  Someone,  at  last,  has  said 
'Who  are  you,  then?'  And  I  hardly  know  where 
to  begin." 

"  Well,  I  asked  you  why  your  father  didn't  marry 
till  your  mother  was  forty.  You  said  she  was 
forty." 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    51 

*'  Yes,  I  know — yes,  that's  quite  right.  You  see 
he  was  married  before  to  a  wealthy  woman.  They 
lived  here  in  London.  I'm  afraid  they  didn't  get  on 
well  together.  It  was  his  fault.  He  says  so,  and 
I  believe  it  was.  I  can  quite  understand  the  way 
it  all  happened.  You  must  love  money  very  much 
to  be  able  to  get  on  with  it  when  it's  not  your 
own.  He  didn't  love  it  enough.  Her  money  got 
between  them.  One  never  really  knows  the  ins  and 
outs  of  these  things.  Nobody  can  possibly  explain 
them.  I  say  I  understand  it,  but  I  don't.  They 
happen  when  people  marry.  Only,  it  would  appear, 
when  they  marry.  She  never  threw  it  in  his  face, 
I'm  sure  of  that.  He  always  speaks  of  her  as  a 
wonderful  woman;  but  it  was  just  there — that's  all. 
Gold's  a  strange  metal,  you  know — an  uncanny 
metal,  I  think.  They  talk  of  the  ill-luck  of  the  opal, 
it's  nothing  to  the  ill-luck  of  the  gold  the  opal  is 
set  in.  You  must  realise  the  absolute  valuelessness 
of  it,  that  it's  no  more  worth  than  tin,  or  iron,  or 
lead,  or  any  other  metal  that  the  stray  thrust  of  a 
spade  may  dig  up ;  if  you  don't  think  of  it  like 
that,  if  you  haven't  an  utter  contempt  for  it,  it's 
a  poison,  is  gold.  It's  subtle,  deadly  poison  that 
finds  its  heavy  way  into  the  most  sacred  heart  of 
human  beings  and  rots  the  dearest  and  the  gentlest 
thoughts  they  have.  They  say  familiarity  breeds 
contempt.  In  every  case  but  that  of  gold,  it's  true. 
But  in  gold  it's  just  the  reverse.  The  only  way 
with  gold,  to  have  contempt  for  it,  is  to  have  none 
and,   when   it   does    enter   your   possession,   give   it 


52     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

away.  You  keep  it,  you  struggle  for  it,  you  give 
it  a  moment's  place  on  your  altar,  and  you'll  find 
that  your  first-born  must  be  the  burnt  offering  you 
will  have  to  make  to  assuage  its   insatiable  lust." 

The  sense  of  humour  saved  him  from  saying  more. 
Suddenly  he  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  laughed. 
The  only  way  with  gold,  to  have  contempt  for  it, 
is  to  have  none  and,  when  it  does  enter  your  posses- 
sion, give  it  away. 

Glorious  words  to  say  when  you  have  only  a  penny 
in  your  pocket  to  pay  for  your  chair  in  Kensington 
Gardens — such  a  fine  sense  of  bravado  in  them.  As 
for  the  chance  of  money  falling  from  the  heavens  or 
the  elm  trees  into  your  lap,  it  is  so  remote,  that  you 
can  afford  to  voice  your  preachings  without  fear 
of  having  to  put  them  into  immediate  practice. 

Seeing  all  this  and,  seeing  the  solemn  expression 
on  her  face,  John  laughed.  All  that  fine  parade  of 
words  of  his  was  very  human.  He  knew  it.  There 
is  not  one  amongst  us  but  who  does  it  every  day. 
There  never  is  so  fine  an  army  of  brave  men  as  you 
will  find  in  times  of  peace;  never  so  lavish  a  man 
with  money  as  he  who  has  none.  These  are  the  real 
humours,  the  real  comedies  in  this  struggle  for  ex- 
istence. And  yet,  it  is  the  only  philosophy  for  the 
poor  man  who  has  nothing,  to  say  he  wants  less. 
So  you  cheat  the  little  gods  of  their  laughter,  and 
whistle  a  tune  to  show  how  little  you  care. 

But  to  see  through  it  all — there  are  so  many 
who  do  it  unconsciously — that  is  a  quality  beyond 
philosophy.     John  laughed. 

She  looked  up  quickly. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    53 

"You  laugh?     Why?" 

"  You   look   so   serious." 

*'  I  was.  It's  so  true — quite  true,  all  you  said. 
But  what  is  one  to  do  when  everybody  around  one 
sets  their  standard  in  gold — when  people  are  only 
good-spirited  when  there  is  money  to  be  had,  and 
cross  and  inconsiderate  when  there  is  none?  What 
is  one  to  do  then  ?  " 

"  Must  you  follow  their  lead  ?  "  asked  John. 

*' What  else?  The  community  governs,  doesn't 
it?" 

"  So  they  say.  But  even  government  is  a  thing 
that  must  be  taught,  and  someone  must  teach  it  to 
the  community,  so  that  the  community  may  become 
proficient  at  its  job.  When  you  get  into  a  commu- 
nity of  people  like  that,  all  you  have  to  do  Is  to 
break  away.  It  doesn't  matter  how  universally 
good  a  wrong  may  be,  you  can't  make  it  right  for 
the  individual." 

"What  did  your  father  do?" 

"  Oh — he  disobeyed  the  laws  of  the  community. 
He  went  away.    He  deserted  her." 

She  stole  a  hurried  glance  at  his  face. 

*'  Don't  you  speak  rather  hardly  ?  " 

"  No — conventionally — that's  all.  That  is  the 
technical  term.  He  deserted  her.  Went  and  lived 
in  the  slums  and  worked.  He  was  probably  no  para- 
gon, either,  until  he  met  my  mother.  No  man  is 
until  he  meets  the  woman  with  the  great  heart  and 
God's  good  gift  of  understanding." 

**  Have  you  ever  met  her  yet  ?  " 

**  No — I'm  only  twenty-six." 


54    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Do  you  think  you  ever  will  meet  her?  '* 

**  Yes — one  day." 

"When?" 

**  Oh,  the  time  that  Fate  allots  for  these  things." 

"When  is  that?" 

«  When  it's  too  late." 

*'  Isn't  that  pessimistic  ?  " 

**  No — I'm  only  speaking  of  Time.  Time's  noth- 
ing— Time  doesn't  count.  You  may  count  it — you 
generally  do  with  a  mechanical  contrivance  called 
a  clock — but  it  doesn't  count  itself.  As  the  commu- 
nity looks  at  these  things  it  may  be  too  late,  but 
it's  not  too  late  to  make  all  the  difference  in  life. 
The  point  is  meeting  her,  knowing  her.  Nothing 
else  really  matters.  Once  you  know  her,  she  is  as 
much  in  your  life  as  ever  marriage  and  all  such 
little  conventional  ceremonies  as  that  can  make  her." 

She  looked  up  at  him  again. 

*'  What  strange  ideas  you  have." 

"Are  they?" 

*'  They  are  to  me.  Then  your  father  didn't  meet 
your  mother  too  late?  How  soon  did  he  meet  her 
after — after  he  went  away?  " 

"  Two  years  or  so." 

"  Ol^p-he  was  quite  old,  then  ?  " 

**  No — quite  young." 

"  But  I  thought  you  said  they  didn't  marry  until 
she  was  forty." 

"  Yes — that  is  so.  He  couldn't  marry  her  till 
then.  They  were  both  Catholics,  you  see.  Eighteen 
years  went  by  before  they  married." 

She  made  patterns  on  a  bare  piece  of  ground  with 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    55 

the  ferrule  of  her  umbrella,  as  she  listened.  When 
he  came  to  this  point  of  the  story,  she  carved  the 
figure  one  and  eight  in  the  mould. 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  looking  at  them — "  it  was  a 
long  time  to  wait — wasn't  it.'* " 

She  nodded  her  head  and  slowly  scratched  the 
figures  out. 

"  So  the  secret  papers  were  sent  to  your  father?  " 
she  said. 

"Yes." 

She  communed  with  herself  for  a  few  moments. 
She  was  very  curious  to  know  the  secret  of  those 
papers;  just  as  curious  as  that  other  mariner  had 
been.  But  when  you  get  beyond  a  certain  age,  they 
tell  you  it  is  rude  to  be  curious — more's  the  pity! 
It  takes  away  half  the  pleasure  from  life.  She 
wanted  so  much  to  know.  The  mystery  that  sur- 
rounded John  Grey  in  Fetter  Lane  was  clinging 
to  him  here  in  Kensington  Gardens.  She  felt  just 
as  curious  about  him  as  did  Mrs.  Meakin,  and  Mrs. 
Rowse;  and  Mrs.  Morrell,  and,  like  them,  she  was 
afraid  to  show  it  to  him. 

Presently  she  left  off  scratching  her  patterns  in 
the  mould  and  raised  her  head,  looking  out  wistfully 
across  the  pond. 

"  Ronald  was  delighted  to  be  carrying  secret  pa- 
pers," she  said  pensively. 

"Was  he?" 

*'  Yes — he's  been  reading  Stevenson,  and  Henty, 
and  all  those  books — the  idea  of  secret  papers  was 
just  what  he  loved." 

John's  eyes  twinkled. 


56    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Do  you  think  he  told  that  other  boy  ? "  he 
asked. 

*'  Oh — no — I'm  sure  he  wouldn't." 

"  Not  if  he  got  the  other  boy  to  play  the  part 
of  Thomas  Grey — and  satisfied  his  conscience  like 
that.?" 

*'  No — ^because  he  delivered  them  to  you.  I'm 
sure  he  never  looked  at  them.  You're  the  only  one 
who  knows  the  secret." 

John's  eyes  twinkled  again.  She  was  so  curious 
to  know. 

"  It's  a  terrible  thing  to  be  the  only  posssessor 
of  a  secret  like  that,"  he  said  solemnly. 

She  glanced  quickly  at  his  face. 

"It  is,  if  it's  something  you  mustn't  tell,"  said 
she.  And  you  could  hear  the  question  in  that ;  just 
the  faint  lingering  note  of  it;  but  it  was  there.  Of 
course,  if  he  could  not  tell,  the  sooner  she  knew  it 
the  better.  You  can  waste  upon  a  person  even  so 
poor  a  sentiment  as  curiosity,  and  when  a  woman 
gets  proud,  she  will  give  you  none  of  it. 

If  he  had  kept  his  secret  another  moment  longer, 
she  would  undoubtedly  have  got  proud;  but  just 
then,  there  came  into  view  the  insignificant  little 
figure  of  a  man  in  faded,  dirty  livery,  a  peaked  cap, 
a  sleuth-like,  watchful  air  and,  hidden  in  the  grasp- 
ing of  his  hand,  there  was  a  fateful  ticket  puncher. 
Two  seats,  and  John  had  only  a  penny!  What  can 
one  do  under  such  circumstances  as  these.''  He 
looked  helplessly  through  his  mind  for  a  way  out 
of  the  dilemma.  He  even  looked  on  the  ground  to 
•ee    whether    some    former    charitable  person  had 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    57 

thrown  away  their  tickets  when  they  left — he  al- 
ways did  as  much  for  the  cause  of  unknown  human- 
ity himself.  You  never  know  how  many  people  there 
are  in  London  with  only  a  penny  in  their  pockets. 
But  he  looked  in  vain.  There  were  only  the  figures 
that  she  had  carved  and  scratched  out  in  the  mould. 

He  thought  of  saying  that  he  had  bought  a  ticket 
and  lost  it.  One  of  those  little  gusts  of  wind  that 
were  dancing  under  the  elm  trees  would  readily 
vouch  for  the  truth  of  his  story  in  such  a  predica- 
ment as  this.  But  then  this  might  be  the  only 
ticket  puncher  in  the  gardens  at  that  time  of  the 
year,  and  he  would  know.  He  thought  of  going 
through  all  his  pockets  and  simulating  the  despair 
of  a  man  who  has  lost  his  last  piece  of  gold.  And 
the  slouching  figure  of  the  chair  man  drew  nearer 
and  nearer.  And  oh,  he  came  so  cunningly,  as  if  he 
had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  this  crushing  tax 
upon  the  impoverished  resources  of  those  who  seek 
Romance. 

Yes,  John  rather  liked  that  last  idea.  Anyone 
might  lose  their  last  piece  of  gold.  It  is  not  even 
a  paradox  to  say  it  would  be  the  first  they  would 
lose.  But  it  would  be  acting  the  lie  to  her  as 
well  as  to  the  chairman.  Was  that  fair?  The  chair- 
man would  only  look  imperturbably  at  him  with  a 
stony  eye — it  was  more  than  likely  he  would  have 
heard  that  story  before,  and  a  chair  man  will  not 
be  baulked  of  his  prey.  Then  she  would  have  to 
pay.     No — that  would  not  be  fair.     Then 

"  I'm  going  to  pay  for  my  seat,"  said  the  Ladj 
of  St.  Joseph. 


58     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Oh,  no !  "  said  John  vehemently — "  Why  should 
you?" 

Couldn't  he  get  up  and  say  he  was  only  sitting 
there  by  accident;  had  never  meant  to  sit  down  at 
all? 

"  Yes — I*m  going  to  pay,"  she  said — "  I  owe  you 
a  penny  for  the  candle  to  St.   Joseph." 

Ah!  That  was  the  way  out  of  it!  You  see,  if 
you  only  pray  earnestly  enough,  St.  Joseph  is 
bound  to  answer  your  prayer.  This  was  his  return 
for  John's  offer  of  generosity.  There  is  not  a  doubt 
of  it  in  my  mind.  There  was  not  a  doubt  of  it  in 
his. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    ART   OF    HIEROGLYPHICS 

The  bell  of  the  ticket-puncher  rang,  the  tiny  slips 
of  paper  were  torn  off  the  roll  and  exchanged  hands. 
For  that  day,  at  least — so  long  as  they  chose  to 
sit  there — the  little  penny  chairs  belonged  to  them; 
indisputably  to  them. 

You  feel  you  have  bought  something  when  you 
pay  for  it  with  your  last  penny.  John  leant  back 
with  a  breath  of  relief  as  the  chair  man  walked 
away.  It  had  been  a  terrible  moment.  In  this  life, 
you  never  lose  that  sense  that  it  is  only  the  one 
friend  in  the  world  who  does  not  judge  you  by  the 
contents  of  your  pocket ;  and  when  an  acquaintance 
is  but  of  a  few  moment's  standing — even  if  it  be  a 
Lady  of  St.  Joseph — it  is  hazarding  everything  to 
have  to  admit  to  the  possession  of  only  one  penny. 

Do  you  wonder  his  breath  was  of  relief.?  Would 
you  wonder  if,  wrapped  up  in  that  breath,  there  had 
been  a  prayer  of  thanks  to  St.  Joseph.'*  Only  a 
little  prayer,  not  even  spoken  in  the  breath,  hardly 
expressed  in  the  thought  that  accompanied  it — but 
still  a  prayer — as  much  a  prayer  in  his  heart,  as 
you  might  say  there  was  a  butterfly  in  the  heart  of 
a  cocoon.  We  know  that  there  is  only  a  chrysalis 
— sluggish,  inert,  incapable  of  the  light  and  dainty 
flight  of  a  butterfly's  wings — but  still  it  will  be  a 

69 


60    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

butterfly  one  day.  That  was  just  about  the  relation 
of  John's  breath  to  a  prayer. 

Under  his  eyes,  he  stole  a  look  at  her.  She  was 
not  thinking  of  pennies !  Not  she !  Once  you  make 
a  woman  curious — pennies  won't  buy  back  her  peace 
of  mind.  She  was  beginning  her  tricks  again  with 
the  ferrule  of  her  umbrella.  Why  is  it  that  a  woman 
can  so  much  better  express  herself  with  the  toe  of 
an  elegant  shoe  or  the  point  of  a  fifteen  and  six- 
penny umbrella?  Nothing  less  dainty  than  this  will 
serve  her.  Give  her  speech  and  she  ties  herself  into 
a  knot  with  it  like  a  ball  of  worsted  and  then  com- 
plains that  she  is  not  understood.  But  with  the  toe 
of  an  elegant  shoe — mind  you,  if  it  is  not  elegant, 
you  must  give  her  something  else — she  will  explain 
a  whole  world  of  emotion. 

She  had  begun  scratching  up  the  mould  again. 
John  watched  the  unconscious  expression  of  her  mind 
with  the  point  of  that  umbrella.  One  figure  after 
another  she  scratched  and  then  crossed  out.  First 
it  was  a  ship,  rigged  as  no  ship  has  ever  been 
rigged  before  or  since.  The  Albatross,  of  course. 
Then  a  dome,  the  dome  of  a  building.  He  could 
not  follow  that.  He  would  have  had  to  know  that 
she  had  once  had  a  picture  book  in  which  was  a 
picture  of  Santa  Maria  della  Salute — otherwise  the 
meaning  of  that  dome  was  impossible  to  follow.  He 
thought  it  was  a  beehive.  Really,  of  course,  you 
understood  this  from  the  first  yourself,  it  meant 
Venice.  Then  she  began  carving  letters.  The  first 
was  G.  The  second  was  R.  She  thought  she  felt 
him  looking,  glanced  up  quickly,  but  he  was  gazing 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    61 

far  away  across  the  round  pond.  It  is  always  as 
well  not  to  look.  Women  are  very  shy  when  they 
are  expressing  their  emotions.  It  is  always  as  well 
not  to  look;  but  you  will  be  thought  a  dullard  if 
you  do  not  see.  John  was  gazing  across  the  pond. 
But  nevertheless,  she  scratched  those  first  two  let- 
ters out.     When  he  saw  that,  he  took  pity. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  the  secret  papers  are.?  " 
said  he,  with  a  smile. 

Ah,  the  gratitude  in  her  eyes. 

*'  Do !  "  she  replied. 

*'  It's  a  short  story." 

"A  short  story!  You  write.?  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  that  before  ?  " 

"  But  it's  only  a  short  story,"  said  John,  "  that 
no  one'U  ever  read." 

"  Won't  it  be  published?  '* 

"  No — never." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  people  won't  like  It." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

**  I'm  sure  of  it.     I  know  what  they  like." 

"Read  it  to  me  and  I'll  tell  you  if  I  like  it." 

Read  it  to  her!  Sit  in  Kensington  Gardens  and 
have  his  work  listened  to  by  the  Lady  of  St.  Joseph ! 
He  took  it  out  of  his  pocket  without  another  word 
and  read  it  then  and  there. 

This  is  it. 

AN  IDYLL  OF  SCIENCB 

The  world  has  grown  some  few  of  its  grey  hairs 
in  search  of  the  secret  of  perpetual  motion.     How 


62    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

many,  with  their  ingeniously  contrived  keys,  have 
not  worn  old  and  feeble  in  their  efforts  to  open  this 
Bluebeard's  chamber:  until  their  curiosity  sank  ex- 
hausted within  them?  You  count  them,  from  the 
dilettante  Marquis  of  Worcester,  playing  with  his 
mechanical  toy  before  a  king  and  his  court,  Jack- 
son, OrfFyreus,  Bishop  Wilkins,  Addeley,  with  the 
rest  of  them,  and,  beyond  arriving  at  the  decision 
of  the  French  Academy — "  that  the  only  perpetual 
motion  possible  .  .  .  would  be  useless  for  the 
purpose  of  the  devisers,'*  you  are  drawn  to  the  con- 
clusion that  mankind  shares  curiosity  with  the  beasts 
below  him  and  calls  it  science  lest  the  world  should 
laugh. 

You  have  now  in  this  idyll  here  offered  you,  the 
story  of  one  who  found  the  secret,  and  showed  it  to 
me  alone.  Have  patience  to  let  your  imagination 
wander  through  Irish  country  lanes,  strolling  hither 
and  thither,  drtiwn  to  no  definite  end,  led  by  no  ul- 
timate hope,  and  the  history  of  the  blind  beggar, 
who  discovered  the  secret  of  perpetual  motion,  shall 
be  disclosed  for  you;  all  the  curiosity  that  ever 
thrilled  you  shall  be  appeased,  feasted,  satiated. 

There  was  not  one  In  the  country-side  who  knew 
his  name.  Name  a  man  in  Ireland  and  you  locate 
him ;  Murphy,  and  he  comes  from  Cork — Power,  and 
he  comes  from  Waterford.  Why  enumerate  them 
all?  But  this  blind  beggar  had  no  name.  There 
was  no  place  that  claimed  him.  With  that  tall  silk 
hat  of  his  which  some  parish  priest  had  yielded  him, 
with  his  long  black  coat  which  exposure  to  the  sor- 
rowful rains  of  a  sad  country  had  stained  a  faded 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    63 

green ;  with  his  long,  crooked  stick  that  tapped  its 
wearisome,  monotonous  dirge  and  his  colourless,  red 
'kerchief  knotted  round  his  neck,  he  was  a  figure  well- 
known  in  three  or  four  counties. 

No  village  owned  him.  At  Clonmel,  they  denied 
him,  at  Dungarvan,  they  disowned  him ;  yet  the 
whole  country-side,  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year, 
had  heard  that  well-known  tapping  of  the  crooked 
stick,  had  seen  those  sightless  eyes  blinking  under 
the  twisted  rim  of  the  old  silk  hat.  For  a  day  or 
60  in  the  place,  he  was  a  well-known  figure;  for  a 
day  or  so  they  slipped  odd  pennies  into  his  sensitively 
opened  palm,  but  the  next  morning  would  find  him 
missing.  Where  had  he  gone.?  Who  had  seen  him 
go.?  Not  a  soul!  The  rounded  cobbles  and  the  un- 
even pavements  that  had  resounded  to  the  old 
crooked  stick  would  be  silent  of  that  tapping  noise 
for  another  year,  at  least. 

But  had  chance  taken  you  out  into  the  surround- 
ing country,  and  had  it  taken  you  in  the  right  di- 
rection, you  would  have  found  him  toiling  along  by 
the  hedges — oh,  but  so  infinitely  slowly! — his  shoul- 
ders bent,  and  his  hand  nodding  like  some  mechanical 
toy  that  had  escaped  the  clutches  of  its  inventor 
and  was  wandering  aimlessly  wherever  its  mechanism 
directed. 

How  it  came  to  be  known  that  he  sought  the  se- 
cret of  perpetual  motion,  is  beyond  me.  It  was  one 
of  those  facts  about  him  which  seem  as  inseparable 
from  a  man  as  the  clothes  that  belie  his  trade.  You 
saw  him  coming  up  the  road  towards  you  and  the 
words  "  perpetual  motion "  rushed,  whispering,  to 


64    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

your  mind.  About  the  matter  himself,  he  was  sen- 
sitively reticent;  yet  he  must  have  told  someone — 
someone  must  have  told  me.  Who  was  it.''  Some 
inhabitant  of  the  village  of  Rathmore  must  have 
spread  the  story.  Whom  could  it  have  been? 
Foley,  the  carpenter.?  Burke,  the  fisherman.''  Fitz- 
gerald, the  publican — Troy,  the  farmer?  I  can 
trace  it  to  none  of  these.  I  cannot  remember  who 
told  me:  and  yet,  when  each  year  he  came  round 
for  the  ceremonies  of  the  Pattern  day,  when  they 
honoured  the  patron  saint,  I  said  as  I  saw  him: 
"  Here  is  the  blind  beggar  who  tried  to  invent  per- 
petual motion."  The  idea  became  inseparable  from 
the  man. 

With  each  succeeding  year  his  movements  became 
more  feeble,  his  head  hung  lower  as  he  walked.  You 
could  see  Death  stalking  behind  him  in  his  footsteps, 
gaining  on  him,  inch  by  inch,  until  the  shadow  of  it 
fell  before  him  as  he  walked. 

There  were  times  when  I  had  struggled  to  draw; 
him  into  conversation ;  moments  when  I  had  thought 
that  I  had  won  his  confidence;  but  at  the  critical 
juncture,  those  sightless  eyes  would  search  me 
through  and  through  and  he  would  pass  me  by. 
There  must  have  been  a  time  when  the  world  had 
treated  him  ill.  I  fancy,  in  fact,  that  I  have  heard 
such  account  of  him;  for  he  trusted  no  one.  Year 
after  year  he  came  to  Rathmore  for  the  festival 
of  the  Pattern  and,  year  after  year,  I  remained  in 
ignorance  of  his  secret. 

At  last,  when  I  saw  the  hand  of  Death  stretched 
out  almost  to  touch  his  shoulder,  I  spoke — straight 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    65 

to  the  pith  of  the  matter,  lest  another  year  should 
bring  him  there  no  more. 

He  was  walking  down  from  the  Holy  Well  where 
for  the  last  hour,  upon  his  tremulous  knees,  he  had 
been  making  his  devotions  to  a  saint  whose  shrine 
his  unseeing  eyes  had  never  beheld.  This  was  the 
opportunity  I  seized.  For  a  length  of  many  mo- 
ments, when  first  I  had  seen  his  bent  and  ill-fed 
figure,  rocking  to  and  fro  with  the  steps  he  took, 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  it. 

As  he  reached  my  side,  I  slipp^  a  shilling  into 
his  half-concealed  palm.  So  do  we  assess  our  fellow- 
kind!  The  instinct  is  bestial,  but  ingrained.  Hon- 
our, virtue  and  the  like — we  only  call  them  price- 
less to  ourselves  ;  yet  it  takes  a  great  deal  to  convince 
us  that  they  are  not  priceless  to  others.  I  priced 
my  blind  beggar  at  a  shilling!  I  watched  his  with- 
ered fingers  close  over  it,  rubbing  against  the 
minted  edge  that  he  might  know  its  worth! 

'*  That  has  won  him,"  I  thought. 

Ah!  What  a  brutal  conception  of  God's  handi- 
craft! A  shilling  to  buy  the  secret  of  perpetual 
motion !  Surely  I  could  not  have  thought  that  Na- 
ture would  have  sold  her  mysteries  for  that!  I  did. 
There  is  the  naked  truth  of  it. 

**  Who  gives  me  this  ? "  he  asked,  still  fingering 
it  as  though  it  yet  might  bum  his  hand. 

«  A  friend,"  said  I. 

*'  God's  blessing  on  ye,"  he  answered  and  his 
fingers  finally  held  it  tight.  There  he  kept  it, 
clutched  within  his  hand.  No  pocket  was  safe  in 
the  clothes  he  wore  to  store  .such  fortune  as  that. 


66    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  You're  leaving  Rathmore  after  the  Pattern,  I 
suppose?  "  I  began. 

His  head  nodded  as  he  tapped  his  stick. 

"  There's  something  I  want  to  ask  you  before  you 
go,"  I  continued. 

He  stopped,  I  with  him,  watching  the  suspicions 
pass  across  his  face. 

"  Someone  has  told  me "  I  sought  desperately, 

clumsily,  for  my  satisfaction  now.  "  Someone  has 
told  me  that  you  have  found  the  secret  of  perpetual 
motion.     Is  that  true  ?  " 

The  milk-white,  sightless  eyes  rushed  querulously 
to  mine.  All  the  expression  of  yearning  to  see  seemed 
to  lie  hidden  behind  them.  A  flame  that  was  not 
a  flame — the  ghost  of  a  flame  burnt  there,  intense 
with  questioning.  He  could  not  see ;  I  knew  he  could 
not  see;  yet  those  vacant  globes  of  matter  were 
charged  with  unerring  perception.  In  that  moment, 
his  soul  was  looking  into  mine,  searching  it  for  in- 
tegrity, scouring  the  very  corners  of  it  for  the  true 
reason  of  my  question. 

I  met  his  gaze.  It  seemed  then  to  me,  that  if  I 
failed  and  my  eyes  fell  before  his,  he  would  have 
weighed  and  found  me  wanting.  It  is  one  of  the 
few  things  in  this  world  which  I  count  to  my  credit, 
that  those  empty  sockets  found  me  worthy  of  the 
trust. 

"  Who  told  ye  that?  "  he  asked. 

I  answered  him  truthfully  that  I  did  not  know. 

"But  is  it  the  case?  "  I  added. 

He  shifted  his  position.  I  could  see  that  he  was 
listening. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    67 

*'  There  is  no  one  on  the  road,"  I  said — "  We  are 
quite  alone." 

He  coughed  nervously. 

*'  'Tis  a  matter  of  fifteen  years  since  I  first  thought 
the  thing  out  at  all.  Shure,  I  dunno  what  made  it 
come  into  me  head ;  but  'twas  the  way  I  used  to  be 
working  in  a  forge  before  I  lost  the  sight  of  my 
eyes.     I  thought  of  it  there,  I  suppose." 

He  stopped  and  I  prompted  him. 

"  What  principle  did  you  go  on  ?  "  I  asked — *^  Was 
it  magnetism.'*  How  did  you  set  to  work  to  avoid 
friction .''  " 

This  time,  as  he  looked  at  me,  his  eyes  were  ex- 
pressionless. I  felt  that  he  was  blind.  He  had  not 
understood  a  word  I  had  said. 

"Are  ye  trying  to  get  the  secret  out  av  me?" 
he  asked  at  length.  "  Shure,  there's  many  have 
done  that.  They  all  try  and  get  it  out  av  me.  The 
blacksmith — him  that  was  working  at  the  forge 
where  I  was  myself  before  I  lost  the  sight  in  me 
eyes — he  wanted  to  make  the  machine  for  me.  But 
I'd  known  him  before  I  was  bhnd  and  I  hadn't  lost 
the  knowledge  with  me  eyesight." 

*'  Are  you  making  it  yourself,  then?  " 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"  As  well  as  I  can,"  he  continued — "  but,  shure, 
what  can  these  fingers  do  with  feeling  alone — I  must 
see  what  I'm  doing.  Faith,  I've  all  the  pieces  here 
now  in  me  pocket,  only  for  the  putting  of  'em  to- 
gether, and  glory  be  to  God,  I've  tried  and  tried, 
but  they  won't  go.  Ye  can't  do  it  with  feelin" 
alone." 


68    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

Some  lump  threatened  to  rise  in  my  throat. 

"  Good  God !  "  I  thought—"  this  is  tragedy " 

And  I  looked  in  vain  for  sight  in  his  eyes. 

**  Would  ye  like  to  see  the  pieces  ?  "  he  asked. 

I  assured  him  that  the  secret  would  be  safe  in 
my  keeping  were  he  so  generous. 

"  No  one  about.?  "  he  asked. 

"Not  a  soul!" 

Then,  from  his  pocket — one  by  one — he  took  them 
out  and  laid  them  down  on  a  grass  bank  by  our 
Bide.  I  watched  each  piece  as  he  produced  it  and, 
with  the  placing  of  them  on  the  bank  of  grass,  I 
watched  his  face.  These  were  the  parts  in  the  con- 
struction of  his  intricate  mechanism  that  he  showed 
to  me — a  foot  of  rod  iron,  a  small  tin  pot  that  once 
perhaps  had  held  its  pound  of  coffee,  a  strip  of 
hoop  iron  and  an  injured  lock. 

"  There,"  he  said  proudly — "  but  if  I  were  to  give 
these  to  that  blacksmith,  he'd  steal  the  secret  before 
my  face.  I  wouldn't  trust  him  with  'em  and  I 
working  these  fifteen  years." 

I  thanked  God  he  could  not  see  my  face  then. 
The  foot  of  rod  iron !  The  small  tin  pot !  The  in- 
jured lock!  They  stared  at  me  in  derision.  Only 
they  and  I  knew  the  secret — only  they  and  I  could 
tell  it,  as  they  themselves  had  told  it  me.  His  wits 
were  gone.  Perpetual  motion!  The  wretphed  man 
was  mad. 

Perpetual  motion  out  of  these  rusty  old  things — 
rusting  for  fifteen  years  in  the  corners  of  his  pockets ! 
Perpetual  motion ! 

But  here  the  reality  of  it  all  broke  upon  me — 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    69 

burst  out  with  its  thundering  sense  of  truth.  Mad 
the  blind  beggar  might  be;  yet  there,  before  my 
very  eyes,  in  those  motionless  objects,  was  the  secret 
of  perpetual  motion.  Rust,  decay,  change — the  ob- 
stinate metal  of  the  iron  rod,  the  flimsy  substance 
of  the  tin  pot,  always  under  the  condition  of  change ; 
rusting  in  his  pocket  where  they  had  lain  for  fif- 
teen years — never  quiescent,  never  still,  always  mov- 
ing— moving — moving — in  obedience  to  the  invio- 
lable law  of  change,  as  we  all,  in  servile  obedience 
to  that  law  as  well,  are  moving  continually,  from 
childhood  into  youth,  youth  to  middle-age — middle- 
age  to  senility — then  death,  the  last  change  of  all. 
All  this  giant  structure  of  manhood,  the  very  essence 
of  complicated  intricacy  compared  to  that  piece  of 
rod  iron,  passing  into  the  dust  from  which  the  thou- 
sands of  years  had  contrived  to  make  it.  What 
more  could  one  want  of  perpetual  motion  than  that? 

I  looked  up  into  his  face  again. 

**  You've  taught  me  a  wonderful  lesson,"  I  said 
quietly. 

"  Ah,"  he  replied — *'^  it's  all  there — all  there — the 
whole  secret  of  it;  if  only  I  had  the  eyes  to  put  it 
together." 

If  he  only  had  the  eyes ?  Have  any  of  us  the  eyes? 
Have  any  of  us  the  eyes? 

When  he  had  finished,  he  folded  it  slowly  and  put 
it  back  in  his  pocket. 

"  Well ?  "  he  said. 

His  heart  was  beating  with  anticipation,  with  ap- 
prehension, with  exaltation.    With  one  beat  he  knew 


70    THE  CITY^OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

she  must  think  it  was  good.  It  was  his  best.  He 
had  just  done  it  and,  when  you  have  just  done  it, 
you  are  apt  to  think  that.  But  with  another  beat, 
he  felt  she  was  going  to  say  the  conventional  thing 
— to  call  it  charming — to  say — "  But  how  nice."  It 
would  be  far  better  if  she  said  it  was  all  wrong,  that 
it  struck  a  wrong  note,  that  its  composition  was  ill. 
One  can  believe  that  about  one's  work — but  that  it 
is  charming,  that  it  is  nice — never! 

For  that  moment  Destiny  swung  in  a  balance, 
poised  upon  the  agate  of  chance.  What  was  she 
going  to  say.?  It  all  depended  upon  that.  But  she 
was  so  silent.  She  sat  so  still.  Mice  are  still  when 
you  startle  them;  then,  when  they  collect  their  wits, 
they  scamper  away. 

Suddenly  she  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  Will  you  be  here  in  the  Gardens  to-morrow  morn- 
ing at  this  time,"  she  said — "  Then  I'll  tell  you  how 
very  much  I  liked  it." 


CHAPTER   X 

THE    NEED   FOR   INTUITION 

In  such  a  world  as  this,  anything  which  is  wholly 
sane  is  entirely  uninteresting.  But — thank  heaven 
for  it ! — madness  is  everywhere,  in  every  corner,  at 
every  turning.  You  will  not  even  find  compete  san- 
ity in  a  Unitarian ;  in  fact,  some  of  the  maddest 
people  I  have  ever  met  have  been  Unitarians.  Yet 
theirs  is  an  aggravating  madness.  You  can  have 
no  sympathy  with  a  man  who  believes  himself  sane. 

But  anything  more  utterly  irresponsible  than  this 
sudden,  impulsive  departure  of  the  Lady  of  St.  Jo- 
seph can  scarcely  be  imagined.  John  did  not  even 
know  her  name  and,  what  is  more,  did  not  even 
realise  the  fact  until  she  and  Ronald  had  crossed  the 
stretch  of  grass  and  reached  the  Broad  Walk.  Then 
he  ran  after  them. 

Ronald  turned  first  as  he  heard  the  hurrying  foot- 
steps. Anything  running  will  arrest  the  attention  of 
a  boy,  while  a  woman  hears,  just  as  quickly,  but 
keeps  her  head  rigid.  Evidently,  Ronald  had  told 
her.  She  turned  as  well.  John  suddenly  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  her.  Then  the  impossible 
delicacy  of  the  situation  and  his  question  came  home 
to  him. 

How,  before  Ronald,  to  whom  he  had  just  been 
introduced  as  a  friend,  could  he  ask  her  name?  Sim- 
plicity of  mind  is  proverbial  in  those  who  trafiic  in 

71 


72    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

deep  waters ;  but  could  the  master  of  the  good  ship 
Albatross  ever  be  so  simple  as  not  to  find  the  sug- 
gestion of  something  peculiar  in  such  a  question  as 
this? 

And  so  when  he  reached  her  side,  he  stood  there 
despairingly  dumb. 

"  You  wanted  to  say  something?  "  said  she. 

He  looked  helplessly  at  Ronald.  Ronald  looked 
helplessly  at  him.  Then,  when  he  looked  at  her,  he 
saw  the  helplessness  in  her  eyes  as  well. 

"  What  is  it  you  want  ?  "  said  her  eyes — "  I  can't 
get  rid  of  him.     He's  as  cunning  as  he  can  be." 

And  his  eyes  replied — "  I  want  to  know  your  name 
— ^I  want  to  know  who  you  are."  Which  is  a  foolish 
thing  to  say  with  one's  eyes,  because  no  one  could 
possibly  understand  it.     It  might  mean  anything. 

Then  he  launched  a  question  at  a  venture.  If 
she  had  any  intuition,  she  could  guide  it  safe  to 
port. 

"  I  just  wanted  to  ask,"  said  John — "  if  you  were 

any  relation  to  the — the "    At  that  moment  the 

only  name  that  entered  his  head  was  Wrigglesworth, 
who  kept  a  little  eating-house  in  Fetter  Lane — "  the 
— oh — what  is  their  name! — the  Merediths  of 
Wrotham?  " 

He  had  just  been  reading  "  The  Amazing  Mar- 
riage." But  where  on  earth  was  Wrotham?  Well, 
it  must  do. 

She  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  She  had  not 
understood.     Who  could  blame  her? 

"The  Merediths?"  she  repeated— "  But  why 
should  you  think " 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    73 

"  Oh,  yes — I  know," — he  interposed  quickly — 
"  It's  not  the  same  name — but — they — they  have  re- 
lations of  your  name — they  told  me  so — cousins  or 
something  like  that,  and  I  just  wondered  if — well, 
it  doesn't  matter — you're  not.     Good-bye." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  departed.  For  a  moment 
there  was  a  quite  unreasonable  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment in  his  mind.  She  was  wanting  in  intuition. 
She  ought  to  have  understood.  Of  course,  in  her  be- 
wilderment at  his  question  she  had  looked  charming 
and  that  made  up  for  a  great  deal.  How  intensely 
charming  she  had  looked!  Her  forehead  when  she 
frowned — the  eyes  alight  with  questions.  Anyhow, 
she  had  understood  that  what  he  had  really  wanted 
to  say  could  not  be  said  before  Ronald  and,  into  her 
confidence  she  had  taken  him — closing  the  door  quite 
softly  behind  them.  Without  question,  without  un- 
derstanding, she  had  done  that.  Perhaps  it  made  up 
for  everything. 

Presently,  he  heard  the  hurrying  of  feet,  and 
turned  at  once.  How  wonderfully  she  ran — like  a 
boy  of  twelve,  with  a  clean  stride  and  a  sure  foot. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  in  little  breaths.  *'  I 
didn't  understand.  The  Merediths  and  the  Wrotham 
put  me  all  out.  It's  Dealtry — Julie  Dealtry — 
they  call  me  Jill.  We  live  in  Prince  of  Wales'  Ter- 
race.'* She  said  the  number.  "  Do  they  call  you 
Jack?    Good-bye — to-morrow."    And  she  was  oflp. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A   SIDE-LIGHT   UPON    APPEARANCES 

He  watched  the  last  sway  of  her  skirt,  the  last 
toss  of  her  head,  as  she  ran  down  the  hill  of  the 
Broad  Walk,  then,  repeating  mechanically  to  him- 
self: 

Jack  and  Jill  went  up  the  hill 

To  fetch  a  pail  of  water, 

Jack,  fell  down  and  broke  his  crown 

And  Jill   cwme    tumbling   afher, 

and,  wondering  what  it  all  meant,  wondering  if,  after 
all,  those  nursery  rhymes  were  really  charged  with 
subtle  meaning,  he  made  his  way  to  Victoria  Gate 
in  the  Park  Railings. 

In  the  high  road,  he  saw  a  man  he  knew,  a  mem- 
ber of  his  club,  top-hatted  and  befrocked.  The  silk 
hat  gleamed  in  the  sunlight.  It  looked  just  like  a 
silk  hat  you  would  draw,  catching  the  light  in  two 
brilliant  lines  from  crown  to  brim.  The  frock  coat 
was  caught  with  one  button  at  the  waist.  Immacu- 
late is  the  word.  John  hesitated.  They  were 
friends,  casual  friends,  but  he  hesitated.  There 
might  be  two  opinions  about  the  soft  felt  hat  he 
was  wearing.  He  found  it  comfortable;  but  one 
gets  biased  in  one's  opinions  about  one's  hats.  Even 
the  fact  that  the  evening  before  he  had  driven  with 
this  friend  in  a  hansom  for  which  he  had  paid  as 

74 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    75 

the  friend  had  no  money  on  him  at  the  time — even 
this  did  not  give  him  courage.  He  decided  to  keep 
to  his,  the  Park  side  of  the  Bayswater  Road. 

But  presently  the  friend  saw  him,  lifted  his  stick, 
and  shook  it  amicably  in  greeting.  He  even  crossed 
the  road.  Well,  after  all,  he  could  scarcely  do 
anything  else.  John  had  paid  for  his  hansom  only 
the  evening  before.  He  remembered  vividly  how,  on 
the  suggestion  that  th»y  should  drive,  his  friend  had 
dived  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  shaken  his  bunch  of 
keys  and  said,  with  obvious  embarrassment,  that  he 
had  run  rather  short  of  change.  It  always  is  change 
that  one  runs  short  of.  Capital  is  never  wanting. 
There  is  always  a  balance  at  the  poor  man's  bank, 
and  the  greater  his  pride  the  bigger  the  balance. 
But  at  that  moment,  John  had  been  rich  in  change — 
that  is  to  say,  he  had  half  a  crown. 

*'  Oh — I've  got  heaps,"  he  had  said.  It  is  permis- 
sible to  talk  of  heaps  when  you  have  enough.  And 
he  had  paid  for  the  whole  journey.  It  was  not  to 
be  wondered  at  then,  that  his  friend  came  amicably 
across  the  road. 

John  greeted  him  lightly. 

*'  Going  up  to  town  ?  " 

"  Yes — are  you  ?  " 

John  nodded.     "  Are  you  lunching  at  the  Club  ?  " 

**  No — I've  got  to  meet  some  people  at  the  Carl- 
ton— How's  the  time — my  watch  is  being  mended." 

*'  I  don't  know,"  said  John — "  my  watch  is  all 
smashed  up.     It's  just  on  one  I  should  think." 

"  As  much  as  that  ?  1  must  be  moving  on.  Shall 
we  get  on  a  'bus  ?  " 


76    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

The  very  thing.  John  acquiesced  readily.  He  had 
nothing;  a  careful  calculation  of  what  he  had  spent 
that  morning  will  account  for  that.  But  his  friend 
could  pay.     It  was  his  turn. 

They  mounted  the  stairs  and  took  a  front  seat  be- 
hind the  driver. 

"  You'll  have  to  pay  for  me  to-day,"  said  John. 
"  My  pockets  are  empty  till  I  get  a  cheque  changed." 

The  blood  mounted  to  the  face  of  his  friend.  For 
a  moment  he  looked  as  though  his  beautiful  hat 
were  too  tight  for  his  head.  He  felt  in  liis  pocket. 
Then  he  produced  a  little  stamp  case,  with  gold 
mounted  corners  and  one  penny  stamp  inside. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  he — ^"  I — I've  only  got 
a  penny  stamp."     He  rose  quickly  to  his  feet. 

John  laughed — laughed  loudly. 

*' What  are  you  going  to  do.?"  said  he. 

"  Well— get  off,"  said  his  friend. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  John — "  there's  no  hurry." 

"  Have  you  got  twopence,  then  ?  " 

"  No — not  a  farthing.  But  we're  getting  into 
Town,  aren't  we?    We've  got  nothing  to  grumble  at." 

When  the  'bus  had  travelled  another  hundred 
yards  or  so,  John  stood  up. 

"  Now,  you  come  downstairs,"  said  he.  The  friend 
followed  obediently.  The  conductor  was  inside 
punching  tickets.     John  looked  in. 

"  Does  this  'bus  go  to  Paddington  Station  ?  "  he 
asked  inquiringly. 

"  No — Piccadilly  Circus,  Haymarket,  and  Strand." 

"  What  a  nuisance,"  said  John — "  Come  on — ^we'd 
better  get  off." 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    77 

They  descended  on  to  the  road,  and  the  friend, 
immaculate,  top-hatted  and  befrocked,  took  his  arm. 

**  I  see,"  he  said,  and  he  looked  back  to  measure 
the  distance  with  his  eye. 

There  are  more  people  in  London  with  only  a 
penny  in  their  pockets  than  you  would  imagine. 


CHAPTER  Xn 

THE   CHAPEL   OF    UNREDEMPTION 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  promise.  For  half 
an  hour  before  the  time  appointed  for  his  meeting, 
John  was  waiting,  seated  upon  a  penny  chair,  think- 
ing innumerable  thoughts,  smoking  innumerable 
cigarettes.  Sometimes  he  felt  the  money  that  was  in 
his  pocket,  running  his  finger  nail  over  the  minted 
edge  of  the  half  crowns  and  florins  to  distinguish 
them  from  the  pennies.  No  woman,  whatever  fran- 
chise she  may  win,  will  ever  understand  the  delight 
of  this.  You  must  have  a  pocket  in  your  trousers 
and  keep  your  money  there — even  gold  when  you 
possess  it — to  appreciate  the  innocent  joy  of  such 
an  occupation  as  this.  Men  have  really  a  deal  to 
be  grateful  for. 

That  mornning,  John  had  money.  He  even  had 
gold.  He  had  pawned  his  gold  watch-chain,  in- 
tending, if  the  opportunity  arose,  to  ask  Jill  to 
lunch. 

The  watch,  as  you  know,  was  smashed  up.  That 
is  a  technical  term  in  use  amongst  all  gentlemen  and 
sensitive  people,  having  this  great  advantage  that 
it  may  be  taken  literally  or  not,  at  will.  No  one 
who  uses  the  term  has  ever  been  so  much  in  want 
of  shame  as  to  define  it. 

You  may  wonder  why  it  is  that  the  watch  and 
78 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    79 

not  the  chain  should  get  smashed  up  first.  It  Is 
the  watch  that  tells  the  time.  But  then,  it  is  the 
chain  that  tells  you  have  got  the  watch  that  tells 
the  time,  and  in  this  life  one  has  always  to  be  con- 
sidering that  there  would  be  no  maiden  all  forlorn 
if  it  were  not  for  the  house  that  Jack  built.  The 
chain  will  always  be  the  last  to  go,  so  long  as 
those  three  brass  balls  continue  to  hang  over  that 
suspicious-looking   shop   in   the   dingy   side   street. 

John's  watch  had  been  smashed  up  for  some  weeks ; 
but  little  boys  and  little  girls  in  the  street  still  flat- 
tered him  by  asking  to  be  told  the  time. 

With  one  eye  searching  for  a  distant  clock  while 
your  hand  pulls  out  the  latch  key  which  depends  upon 
the  chain,  giving  it  the  weight  of  a  reason  to  stay  in 
the  pocket,  you  can  easily  deceive  the  eyes  of  these 
unsuspecting  little  people  in  the  street.  If  you  dis- 
cover the  distant  clock,  all  well  and  good.  If  not, 
then  a  hundred  devices  are  left  open  to  you.  You 
can  guess — you  can  tell  it  by  the  sun,  but,  and  if 
you  are  conscientious,  you  can  apologise  and  say 
your  watch  has  stopped.  And  last  of  all,  if  it  Is  a 
nice  little  person  with  eyes  in  which  a  laugh  is  al- 
ways a-tip-toe,  you  may  dangle  the  key  in  front 
of  their  face,  and  with  their  merriment  experience 
the  clean  pleasure  of  honesty. 

A  quality  about  John  that  was  interesting,  was 
his  ability  to  anticipate  possibilities.  Perhaps  a 
man's  mind  runs  instinctively  to  the  future,  and  it 
is  the  woman  who  lives  in  the  past. 

When  Mrs.  Rowse  awakened  him  in  the  morning, 
he  sat  up  in  bed  with  the   glowing  consciousness 


-»0    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

that  something  was  to  happen  that  day.  Something 
had  been  arranged;  some  appointment  was  to  be 
kept;  some  new  interest  had  entered  his  life  which 
was  to  take  definite  shape  that  very  day. 

He  asked  Mrs.  Rowse  the  time — not  as  one  who 
really  wishes  to  know  it,  but  as  it  were  a  duty,  which 
must  sooner  or  later  be  accomplished.  Directly  she 
said  a  quarter  to  nine,  he  remembered.  Jill!  The 
Lady  of  St.  Joseph!  That  morning  she  was  going 
to  tell  him  how  much  she  liked  his  story. 

He  sat  up  at  once  in  bed. 

"  Mrs.  Rowse !  I  shall  want  my  coffee  in  half 
an  hour.    Less !    Twenty  minutes  !  " 

In  twenty  minutes,  he  was  dressed.  Allowance 
must  be  made  if  he  chose  a  sock  that  matched  a  tie 
or  spent  a  moment  of  thought  upon  the  selection 
of  a  shirt  to  go  with  them.  Vanity,  it  is,  only  to 
do  these  things  for  your  own  approval ;  but  when  all 
consciously,  you  stand  upon  the  very  threshold  of 
romance,  it  may  be  excused  you  if  you  consider 
yourself  in  the  reflexion  of  the  door.  It  is  the  man 
who,  wandering  aimlessly  through  the  streets  in 
life,  looks  in  at  every  mirror  that  he  passes,  who  is 
abominable.  That  is  the  vanity  of  which  the 
prophet  spoke.  The  prophet,  himself,  would  have 
been  the  first  to  set  straight  the  tie,  or  rearrange 
the  'kerchief  of  the  lover  who  goes  to  meet  his 
mistress. 

Even  John  smiled  at  himself.  The  socks  matched 
the  tie  so  absolutely ;  it  was  ludicrous  how  well  they 
matched.  There  was  no  rough,  blue  serge  suit  that 
day.    Out  of  the  depths  of  the  wardrobe  came  a  coat 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    81 

well  brushed  and  kept.  Then  he  went  in  to  break- 
fast. 

During  the  meal,  Mrs.  Rowse  lingered  about  in 
the  sitting-room,  dusting  things  that  might  easily 
have  escaped  notice.  John,  reading  his  paper,  at 
last  became  aware  of  it  with  a  rush  of  blood  to  his 
cheeks.  She  had  paid  the  day  before  for  the  wash- 
ing— three  and  elevenpence. 

If  you  go  to  a  laundry  in  the  environment  of  Fet- 
ter Lane,  it  is  like  putting  your  clothes  in  pawn. 
You  can't  get  them  back  again  until  the  bill  Is  paid, 
and  there  are  times  when  that  is  Inconvenient. 

That  was  why  Mrs.  Rowse  was  lingering.  She 
had  paid  for  the  washing.  Whenever  money  was 
due  to  her,  she  lingered.  It  is  a  subtle  method  of 
reproach,  a  gentle  process  of  reminder  which  at  first 
scarcely  explains  Itself. 

On  the  first  occasion  when  she  had  adopted  it, 
John  had  thought  she  was  losing  her  memory,  that 
her  wits  were  gathering.  Out  of  the  comer  of  his 
eye,  he  had  nervously  watched  her  going  aimlessly 
about  the  room,  dusting  the  same  object  perhaps  six 
separate  times.  When  a  woman  is  paid  seven 
shillings  a  week  for  keeping  one's  rooms  tidy,  such 
industry  as  this  might  well  be  a  sign  of  mad- 
ness. 

At  length,  unable  to  bear  it  any  longer,  John 
had  said  that  he  thought  she  had  done  enough. 
Despairingly  then,  she  had  folded  up  the  duster, 
put  it  away,  taken  an  unconscionable  time  in  the 
pinning  on  of  that  black,  shabby  hat,  and  finally, 
but  only  when  at  the  door  itself,  &he  had  said: 


82     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  spare  my  wages  to- 
day, sir?  " 

Now  she  was  lingering  again.  But  he  had  come 
to  know  the  signs  and  meanings  of  the  process.  This 
time,  John  knew  it  was  the  washing.  He  watched 
her  covertly  from  behind  his  paper,  hoping  against 
hope  that  she  might  tire;  for  he  had  not  got  three 
and  elevenpence,  nor  three  halfpence  in  the  world. 
But  a  master  in  the  art  of  lingering  does  not  know 
what  it  means  to  tire.  Just  when  he  thought  she 
must  have  finished,  when  she  had  done  all  the  glass 
on  the  mantel-piece  for  the  second  time,  she  went  out 
of  the  room  to  the  cupboard  on  the  landing  where 
John  kept  his  two-hundredweight  of  coal  and  re- 
turned with  all  the  rags  and  pots  of  paste  necessary 
for  the  cleaning  of  the  brass. 

Here  he  gave  in ;  the  siege  was  over.  Under  cover 
of  the  newspaper,  he  detached  the  latch  key  from 
his  watch-chain,  slipped  it  into  his  pocket  and  rose, 
concealing  the  chain  within  his  hand. 

"  I'm  just  going  out,"  he  said — "  for  a  few  mo- 
ments.    Can  you  wait  till  I  get  back.?  " 

She  looked  as  though  she  could  not,  as  if  it  were 
rather  encroaching  upon  the  limit  of  her  time  to  ask 
her  to  stay  longer,  but 

"  I  expect  I  can  find  one  or  two  little  things  to 
do  for  a  few  moments,"  she  said. 

John  left  her  doing  them.  They  mainly  consisted 
of  putting  the  brass  polish  and  the  rags  back  again 
in  the  cupboard  from  which  she  had  taken  them. 

It  is  here  that  you  will  see  this  quality  interesting 
in  John^  this  ability  to  anticipate  possibilities.     It 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    8S 

was  not  really  the  victory  of  Mrs.  Rowse  that  had 
impelled  him  to  the  sacrifice  of  his  watch-chain.  It 
is  not  consistent  with  human  nature  for  any  man  to 
pawn  an  article  of  value — far  less  one  which  implies 
the  possession  of  another — in  order  to  pay  his  wash- 
ing bill.  Washing,  like  the  income  tax,  is  one  of 
those  indemnities  in  life  which  appear  to  have  no 
justice  in  their  existence.  It  would  always  seem 
that  your  integrity  were  still  preserved,  that  you 
were  still  a  man  of  honour  if  you  could  avoid  pay- 
ing them. 

I  know  a  man,  who  has  eluded  the  income  tax 
authorities  for  seven  years,  and  he  is  held  in  the 
highest  esteem  as  a  man  of  acumen,  ability,  and  the 
soul  of  honour.  I  admit  that  this  opinion  is  only 
held  of  him  by  those  who  are  endeavouring  to  do  the 
same  as  he.  A  man,  for  instance,  who  belongs  to  the 
same  club  and  pays  his  income  tax  to  the  last  shil- 
ling, thinks  him  to  be  a  hopelessly  immoral  citizen 
and  would  believe  him  capable  of  anything.  But  this 
is  not  fair.  It  would  be  far  more  just  to  say 
that  the  man  who  pays  his  income  tax  to  the 
uttermost  farthing  is  capable  of  nothing — inverte- 
brate. 

It  was  not,  then,  alone  to  pay  his  washing  bill 
that  John  decided  to  part  with  the  gold  watch- 
chain.  He  had,  in  a  moment  of  inspiration,  con- 
jured before  him  the  possibility  of  asking  Jill  to 
lunch,  and  these  two  motives,  uniting  from  opposite 
quarters  of  the  compass  of  suggestion  to  one  and  the 
same  end,  he  sacrificed  the  last  pretentions  he 
might  have  claimed  to  the  opulence  conveyed  by  a 


84f    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

gold  watch-chain  and  repaired  to  Payne  and  Wel- 
come's. 

With  a  bold  and  unconscious  step,  he  strode  into 
the  little  side  entrance,  which  is  a  feature  of  all 
these  jeweller's  shops  displaying  the  mystical  sign 
of  the  three  brass  balls.  Without  the  slightest  sense 
of  shame,  he  pushed  open  one  of  the  small  doors 
that  give  admittance  to  the  little  boxes — those  little 
boxes  where  the  confession  of  one's  poverty  is  made. 
And  to  no  sympathetic  ear  of  a  gentle  priest  are 
those  terrible  confessions  to  be  whispered — the  most 
terrible  confession  you  can  make  in  this  world.  The 
man  to  whom  you  tell  your  story  of  shame  is  greedy 
and  willing  to  listen,  eager  and  inexorable  to  make 
your  penance  as  heavy  as  he  may.  A  bailiff  is,  per- 
haps, more  stony  of  heart  than  a  pawnbroker;  yet 
both  are  brothers  in  trade.  The  dearest  things  in 
the  life  of  anyone  are  their  possessions,  and  both 
these  tradesmen  deal  in  their  heartless  confiscation. 
The  woman  out  at  elbow,  hollow-eyed,  who  comes  to 
pawn  her  wedding  ring,  the  man — shabby — genteel 
— wearing,  until  the  nap  is  gone  and  the  sleeves  are 
frayed,  the  garment  of  his  self-respect,  who  comes  to 
put  away  his  best  and  Sunday  coat;  they  are  all 
one  to  the  pawnbroker.  He  beats  them  down  to  the 
last  farthing,  well  knowing  that,  having  once  de- 
termined to  part  with  their  possessions,  they  will 
not  willingly  go  away  again  without  that  for  which 
they  came.  He  has  them  utterly  at  his  mercy.  They 
are  all  one  to  him.  The  story  in  their  faces  is  noth- 
ing to  his  eyes.  He  signs  a  hundred  death  warrants 
in  the  tickets  that  he  writes  every  day — death  war- 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    85 

rants  to  possessions  well-nigh  as  dear  as  life;  but  it 
means  nothing  to  him. 

The  awful  thought  about  it  all,  is  to  consider  the 
ease  with  which  one  loses  the  sense  of  shame  which, 
upon  a  first  transaction  of  the  kind,  is  a  hot  wind 
blowing  on  the  face,  burning  the  cheeks  to  scarlet. 

On  the  first  occasion  that  John  was  driven  to  such 
dealing,  he  passed  that  guilty  side  entrance  many 
times  before  he  finally  summoned  courage  to  enter. 
Every  time  that  he  essayed  the  fatal  step,  the 
street  became  full  of  people  whom  he  knew.  There 
was  that  editor  who  was  considering  his  last  short 
story!  He  turned  swiftly,  his  heel  a  sudden  pivot, 
and  scrutinised  the  objects  in  the  jeweller's  window, 
then  hurried  away  up  the  street,  as  though  he  were 
ashamed  of  wasting  his  time.  A  glance  over  the 
shoulder,  satisfied  him  that  the  editor  was  out  of 
sight  and  back  he  slowly  came.  This  time  he  had 
got  within  a  foot  of  the  door — a  foot  of  it.  One 
step  more  and  he  would  have  been  in  the  sheltering 
seclusion  of  that  narrow  little  passage!  There  was 
the  girl  who  sold  him  stamps  in  the  post-office — 
the  girl  who  smiled  at  him  and  said  she  had  read  a 
beautiful  story  of  his  in  one  of  the  magazines !  He 
had  looked  up  quickly  as  though  he  had  mistaken 
the  number  on  the  door,  then  marched  into  the  next 
shop  on  the  left,  as  if  that  were  the  one  he  had 
been  looking  for.  When  he  had  got  in,  he  realised 
that  it  was  a  butcher's. 

The  butcher,  in  a  blithe  voice,  had  said: 

"And  what  this  morning,  sir?" 

**  I  want — can  you  tell  me  the  time?  "  said  John. 


86    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

In  about  half  an  hour  there  came  a  moment  when 
the  street  was  empty.  John  had  seized  it  and  van- 
ished up  the  little  passage.  But  the  ordeal  was  not 
over  then.  He  had  had  to  face  the  high  priest  of 
poverty — to  tell  to  him  the  unforgivable,  the  mor- 
tal crime  of  penury.  And  there  had  been  someone 
in  the  next  confessional — someone  hardened  in  sin — 
who  could  hear  every  single  word  that  he  said,  and 
even  so  far  over-stepped  the  bounds  of  decency  as 
to  look  round  the  corner  of  their  partition. 

"  How  much  will  you  give  me  for  this  ?  "  said  John, 
laying  his  watch  upon  the  counter.  It  was  the  watch 
his  mother  had  given  him,  the  watch  for  which  she 
had  lovingly  stinted  herself  of  ten  pounds  in 
order  to  mark,  with  degree,  his  twenty-first  birth- 
day. 

The  high  priest  had  picked  it  up  superciUously. 

"D'you  want  to  sell  it.?  " 

"  No — oh,  no !    Only — pawn  it." 

"  Well,  how  much  d'you  want .''  " 

*'  I'd  rather  you  said,"  replied  John  meekly. 

The  high  priest  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was 
a  wasting  of  his  time,  he  said,  to  go  on  with  non- 
sense like  that. 

"  How  much  do  you  want.?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Five  pounds,"  said  John,  and  suddenly,  without 
knowing  how,  found  the  watch  back  again  in  his 
possession.  The  high  priest  had  turned  to  the  hard- 
ened sinner  in  the  next  confessional,  and  he  was  left 
there  looking  at  it  blankly  in  the  palm  of  his  open 
hand.  He  scarcely  knew  how  he  had  come  by  it 
again.     In  the  midst  of  the  other  transaction,  the 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    8T, 

pawnbroker  presently  addressed  him  over  his  shoul- 
der— loudly,  so  that  all  in  the  shop  could  hear: 

"  I'll  give  you  two  pounds,"  he  had  said — "  And 
that's  about  as  much  as  I  could  sell  it  for  myself." 

Two  pounds !  It  was  an  insult  to  that  dear,  little, 
old,  white-haired  lady  who  had  scraped  and  saved  to 
buy  him  the  best  she  knew. 

"  It  cost  ten  pounds !  "  John  said  boldly. 

**  Ten  pounds !  "  The  laugh  he  gave  was  like  the 
breaking  of  glass.  "  The  person  who  gave  ten 
pounds  for  that  must  have  wanted  to  get  rid  of 
money  in  a  hurry." 

Wanted  to  get  rid  of  money  in  a  hurry!  If  he 
could  have  seen  the  number  of  dainty  shawls  the  thin 
white  fingers  had  knitted  and  the  trembling  hands 
had  sold  in  order  to  amass  the  fortune  of  that  ten 
pounds,  he  would  not  have  talked  of  hurry. 

"  I'll  give  you  two  pounds  five,"  he  had  added. 
*'  Not  a  farthing  more  and  if  you  take  it  away 
somewhere  else  and  then  bring  it  back  here  again, 
I'll  only  give  you  two  pounds,  what  I  said  at 
first." 

When  the  blood  is  mounting  to  your  forehead, 
when  it  seems  you  are  crushed  about  by  those  watch- 
ing your  discomfort  till  the  warmth  of  their  press- 
ing, phantom  bodies  brings  the  perspiration  out  in 
beads  upon  your  face,  you  will  take  anything  to  get 
away. 

The  pawnbroker  had  made  out  the  ticket  as  John 
mumbled  his  name  and  address. 

"  Got  a  penny — a  penny  for  the  ticket.?  "  said  the 
man. 


88    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

To  be  compelled  to  make  this  confession — the  most 
unabsolvable  of  all — that  he  had  nothing  in  his 
pocket,  was  the  crisis  to  his  suffering.  The  high 
priest  sniffed,  smiled  and  counted  out  two  pounds 
four  and  elevenpence.  Then  John  had  turned  and 
fled. 

Out  in  the  street  again,  he  had  breathed  once 
more.  The  air  was  purer  there.  The  passers-by, 
hearing  the  money  jingle  in  his  pocket,  held  him  in 
higher  esteem  than  did  those  devotees  in  the  chapel 
of  unredemption.  He  could  even  stop  and  look  in 
the  windows  of  the  jeweller's  shop — that  open,  smil- 
ing face  of  a  shop  window  which,  beneath  its  smug 
and  shiny  respectability,  concealed  all  the  secret, 
sordid  crimes  of  poverty — the  polished  pledges  un- 
redeemed, that  lay  deceptively  upon  the  glass  shelves 
as  though  they  had  come  just  new  from  the  maker's 
hands. 

It  was  then,  gazing  in  the  window,  on  that  mem- 
orable day  when  he  had  made  his  first  confession, 
that  John  had  seen  the  little  brass  man.  He  stood 
there  on  a  glass  shelf  along  with  dozens  of  other 
unredeemed  trinkets,  his  low-crowned  top-hat,  his 
long-tailed,  slim-waisted,  Georgian  coat  and  many- 
buttoned  vest,  giving  him  an  air  of  distinction  which 
none  of  the  other  objects  around  him  possessed. 
His  attitude,  his  pose,  was  that  of  a  Chevalier  d'hon- 
neur — a  chivalrous,  courteous,  proud  old  gentleman. 
The  one  hand  resting  on  the  hip,  was  full  of  dignity. 
The  other  stretched  out  as  though  to  reach  some- 
thing, John  came  later,  on  acquaintance,  to  learn 
the  fuller  significance  of  that.     But  though  all  the 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    89 

features  of  his  face  were  worn  away  by  hands  that  had 
held  him,  gripping  him  as  they  pressed  him  down, 
a  seal  upon  the  molten  wax,  it  had  no  power  to  lessen 
his  undeniable  dignity.  For  all  his  shapelessness  of 
eyes  and  nose  and  mouth,  there  was  not  an 
inch  thereby  detracted  from  his  stature.  From  the 
first  moment  that  he  had  seen  him,  the  little  brass 
man  had  taken  his  stand  in  John's  mind  as  the 
figure  of  all  nobility,  all  honour,  and  all  cleanliness 
and  generosity  of  heart. 

To  see  that  little  figure  in  brass  was  to  covet  him. 
John  walked  back  without  hesitation  into  the  shop; 
but  this  time  it  was  through  the  jeweller's  entrance 
— this  time  it  was  with  the  confidence  of  one  who 
comes  to  buy,  not  to  sell,  with  the  self-righteous- 
ness of  the  virtue  of  two  pounds  four  and  eleven- 
pence, not  with  the  shame  of  the  sin  of  poverty. 

Ah,  they  treat  you  differently  on  this  side  of 
the  counter.  If  you  were  ordering  a  High  Mass  to 
be  sung,  the  priest  of  poverty  could  treat  you  with 
no  greater  deference.  They  may  have  thought  he 
was  mad — most  probably  they  did.  It  is  not  char- 
acteristic of  the  man  who  comes  without  a  penny  to 
pay  for  the  ticket  as  he  pawns  his  watch,  to  im- 
mediately purchase,  haphazard,  a  little  trinket  that 
is  of  no  use  to  anyone.  The  high  priest  of  poverty, 
himself,  will  tell  you  that  the  sin  must  weigh  heavy 
with  need  upon  the  mind  before  the  tongue  can  bring 
itself  to  confess. 

They  had  looked  at  him  in  no  little  surprise  as  he 
re-entered;  but  when  he  had  asked  to  be  shown  the 
little  brass  man,  they  cast  glances  from  one  to  an- 


00     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

other,  as  people  do  when  they  think  they  are  in  the 
presence  of  a  wandering  mind. 

"  How  much  do  you  want  for  it  ? "  John  had 
asked. 

"  Seven  and  six.  It's  very  good — an  old  seal, 
you  know,  quite  an  antique." 

John  considered  the  one  pound  fifteen  which  he 
owed  out  of  that  two  pounds  four  and  elevenpence. 

*'  I'm  afraid  that's  too  much,"  said  he. 

**Ah — it's  worth  it.  Why,  that's  over  a  hundred 
years  old — quite  unique." 

**  I'm  afraid  it's  too  much,"  John  repeated. 

"Well— look  here— I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do. 
You  can  have  it  for  seven  shillings,  and  we'll  give 
you  six  on  it  any  day  you  like  to  bring  it  back." 

They  could  have  offered  no  greater  proof  than 
that  of  the  value  in  which  they  held  it.  If  a  pawn- 
broker will  buy  back  an  article  at  almost  the  same 
price  that  he  sells  it,  he  must  indeed  be  letting  you 
have  it  cheap.  This  offering  to  take  back  the  little 
brass  man  at  only  a  shilling  less  than  he  was  ask- 
ing for  it,  was  the  highest  expression  of  honesty 
with  which  he  could  defend  his  demands. 

John  accepted  the  conditions — paid  out  his  seven 
shillings  and  bore  the  little  Chevalier  d'honneur  in 
brass  away. 

It  was  three  months  later,  he  had  only  had  break- 
fast for  two  days — ^breakfast,  which  consisted  of 
toast  made  from  a  loaf  that  was  ten  days  old, 
bloater  paste  which  keeps  for  ever,  and  cof- 
fee which  can — if  you  know  where  to  get  it — be  ob- 
tained on  credit.     It  was  winter-time  and  the  cold 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    91 

had  made  him  hungry.  Coals  had  run  out.  The  last 
few  scrapings  of  dust  had  been  gathered  out  of  that 
cupboard  on  the  landing.  Then  depression  set  in. 
Depression  is  a  heartless  jade.  She  always  pays  you 
a  visit  when  both  stomach  and  pocket  are  empty. 
Putting  his  face  in  his  hands,  John  had  leant  on 
the  mantel-piece.  There  was  nothing  to  pawn  just 
then.  Everything  had  gone!  Suddenly,  he  became 
aware  that  he  was  gazing  at  the  little  brass  man, 
and  that  the  little  brass  man  had  got  one  hand 
aristocratically  upon  his  hip,  whilst  the  other  was 
holding  out  something  as  though  secretly  to  bestow 
it  as  a  gift.  John  looked,  and  looked  again.  Then 
he  saw  what  it  was.  The  little  brass  man  was  of- 
fering him  six  shillings  and  a  spasm  of  hunger 
creaking  through  him — he  had  taken  it. 


CHAPTER   Xni 

THE    INVENTORY 

All  this  had  happened  more  than  a  year  ago,  and 
the  sense  of  shame,  accompanying  that  first  confes- 
sion, had  been  worn  to  the  dull  surface,  incapable  of 
reflecting  the  finer  feelings  of  the  mind.  Under 
the  very  nose  of  that  editor  who  was  considering  his 
last  short  story,  John  would  have  stepped  boldly 
into  the  suspicious-looking  little  passage ;  returning 
the  smile  of  the  girl  who  sold  him  stamps  in  the  post- 
office,  he  would  have  entered  shamelessly  the  chapel 
of  unredemption.  Such  is  the  reward  of  the  per- 
petual sin  of  poverty.  It  brings  with  it  the  soothing 
narcotic  of  callousness,  of  indifference — and  that 
perhaps  is  the  saddest  sin  of  all. 

The  watch-chain  went  that  morning  with  the  ease 
of  a  transaction  constantly  performed.  There  was 
no  need  to  haggle  over  the  price  this  time.  The 
same  price  had  been  paid  many  times  before.  It 
came  last  but  one  on  the  list  of  things  to  be  pawned. 
Last  of  all  was  the  little  brass  man — the  last  to  be 
pledged,  the  first  to  be  redeemed.  There  is  always 
an  order  in  these  things  and  it  never  varies.  When 
pledging,  you  go  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  list; 
when  redeeming,  it  is  just  the  reverse.  And  the 
order  itself  depends  entirely  upon  that  degree  of 
sentiment  with  which  each  object  is  regnrded. 

99 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    93 

The  following  was  the  list,  in  its  correct  order, 
of  those  things  which  from  time  to  time  left  the 
world  of  John's  possession,  and  were  hidden  in  the 
seclusion  of  pledged  retreat: — 

Fuft  Coat. 

Cuff  Links. 

Cigarette  Case. 

Tie  Pin. 

Match  Box. 

Watch. 

Chain. 

Little  Brass  Man. 

Reverse  the  order  of  this  and  you  arrive  at  the  se- 
quence in  which  they  returned.  And  here  follows  a 
detailed  account  of  the  history  of  each  object — de- 
tailed, where  details  are  possible  and  of  interest. 
Fur  Coat.  This  pretentious-looking  article  was 
bought  by  John  as  a  bargain.  One  day,  when  pay- 
ing his  rent  to  the  landlord — a  man  who  smelted 
and  refined  the  gold  that  has  an  acquaintance  with 
false  teeth — he  was  asked  if  he  would  like  to  buy 
something  very  cheap.  Well — ^you  know  what  a 
temptation  that  is.  So  great  a  temptation  is  it, 
that  you  ask  first  "  How  much?  "  and  only  when  you 
have  heard  the  price,  do  you  inquire  the  nature  of 
the  article.  Four  pounds  ten,  he  was  told.  Then 
what  was  it?  A  fur-lined  overcoat  with  astrachan 
collar  and  cuffs !  There  must  be  a  presumption  on 
the  part  of  the  seller  that  you  know  nothing  of 
fur  coats,   or  he  will  not  talk   to  you   like   this. 


94    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

Certainly  it  was  cheap,  but  even  then,  it  would  not 
have  been  bought  had  John  not  overheard  the  former 
possessor  offering  to  buy  it  back  at  four  pounds 
five.  Such  a  circumstance  as  this  doubles  the  tempta- 
tion. So  seldom  is  it  that  one  comes  across  a  bar- 
gain when  one  has  any  money  in  one's  pocket,  that 
it  is  impossible,  when  one  does,  to  let  it  go  to  an- 
other man.  John  bought  it.  It  would  be  a  useful 
thing  to   visit  editors   in   when   he  had   no   money. 

But  you  would  scarcely  credit  the  treachery  of  a 
fur-lined  coat  with  astrachan  collar  and  cuffs.  John 
had  no  idea  of  it.  It  played  fiendish  tricks  upon 
him.  Just  as  he  determined  to  mount  upon  a 
'bus,  it  whispered  in  his  ear — "  You  can't  do  this 
— you  really  can't.  If  you  want  to  drive,  you'd  bet- 
ter get  a  hansom.     If  not,  then  you'd  better  walk." 

It  was  of  no  avail  that  he  complained  of  not  be- 
ing able  to  afford  a  hansom  and  of  being  in  too 
great  a  hurry  to  walk.  That  heavy  astrachan 
collar  whispered  again: 

"  You  can't  ride  on  a  'bus  anyway — look  at  that 
man  laughing  at  you  already " 

And  with  a  fiendish  joy,  it  gave  him  sudden  and 
magical  insight  into  the  jeering  minds  of  all  those 
people  in  the  'bus.  He  relinquished  the  'bus  then. 
He  called  a  hansom ;  he  was  in  a  hurry  and  he  drove 
away,  while  the  astrachan  collar  preens  itself  with 
pride  and  delight  as  it  looks  in  the  little  oblong 
mirror. 

And  this  is  not  the  only  treachery  which  the  fur 
coat  played  upon  him.  As  he  descended  from  the 
cab,  a  man  rushed  out  of  nowhere  to  protect  that 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    95 

coat  from  the  wheels,  and  overcome  with  pleasure, 
the  fur  coat  whispered  in  his  ear  once  more — "  Give 
him  twopence — you  can't  ignore  him." 

**  I  could  have  kept  my  coat  off  the  wheel  quite 
easily  myself,"  John  replied — "  He  was  really  only 
in  the  way." 

*'  Never  mind,"  exclaimed  the  astrachan  collar — 
■"If  you're  going  to  be  seen  about  with  me,  you'll 
have  to  give  him  twopence." 

Reluctantly  John  took  the  twopence  out. 

And  then,  all  the  while  that  he  was  fumbling  in 
his  pocket  for  the  shilling  which  should  have  been 
more  than  his  legal  fare,  seeing  the  distance  he  had 
come,  only  that  it  cannot  be  less,  the  astrachan  col- 
lar was  still  at  him. 

*'  Can't  you  hear,"  it  says  suggestively — "  can't 
you  hear  what  the  cabman  is  going  to  say  when  you 
only  give  him  a  shilling !  " 

Then  it  imitated  his  voice,  just  in  the  very  way 
John  knew  he  would  say  it,  and  he  felt  the  blood 
tingling  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  Of  course,  he 
gave  him  one  and  six,  for  by  this  time  he  was  the 
slave  of  that  fur-lined  coat.  It  dominated  his  life. 
It  ran  up  bills  in  his  name  and  he  had  to  pay 
them.  For  myself,  I  would  sooner  live  with  an  ex- 
travagant wife  than  with  a  fur-lined  coat. 

And  so  was  it  with  John.  That  bargain  he  had 
purchased  with  the  astrachan  collar  and  cuffs  treated 
him  shamefully.  It  was  insatiable  in  its  demands, 
and  all  under  false  pretences ;  for  there  came  one  ter- 
rible day  when  John,  who  knew  nothing  about  these 
things,  learnt  that  it  was  only  imitation  astrachan. 


96    TH^  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

Then  he  asserted  himself.  He  refused  to  take  it 
out,  and  one  freezing  day  in  the  month  of  February 
pawned  it  for  two  pounds  five.  Some  three  months 
later,  on  a  blazing  day  in  May,  he  received  a  no- 
tice from  the  pawnbroker,  who  said  that  he  must 
redeem  it  immediately,  for  he  could  not  hold  him- 
self responsible  for  the  fur.  Now,  even  an  extrava- 
gant wife  would  have  more  consideration  for  you, 
more  idea  of  the  true  fitness  of  things  than  that. 
Eventually  that  fur  coat  was  pawned  in  order  to 
save  a  lady  from  the  last,  the  most  extreme  sentence 
that  the  law  can  pass  upon  the  sin  of  poverty. 
There  comes  a  time  when  the  sin  of  poverty  can  be 
dealt  no  longer  with  by  the  high  priest  in  the  chapel 
of  unredemption.  Then  it  comes  into  the  hands  of 
the  law.  To  save  her  from  this,  was  a  debt  of 
honour  and  perhaps  the  most  generous  action 
that  that  fur  coat  ever  did  in  its  life,  was  to  pay 
that  debt:  for  the  three  months  went  by,  and  on 
one  of  the  coldest  days  in  winter,  it  passed  silently 
and  unwept  into  the  possession  of  the  high  priest. 

Cuff  Links.  No  history  is  attached  to  these. 
They  realised  ten  shillings  many  times,  till  the  ticket 
was  lost,  and  then,  since,  under  these  circumstances, 
an  affidavit  must  be  made,  and  cuff  links  not  being 
worth  the  swearing  about,  they  were  lost  sight  of. 

The  Watch.  For  this  is  the  next  article  on  the 
inventory,  of  which  any  substance  can  be  written, 
and  its  history  is  practically  known  already.  John's 
mother  had  given  it  to  him.  It  represented  the 
many  times  those  two  bright  eyes  were  tired  with 
counting  the  stitches  of  the  white  lace  shawls.     It 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    97 

represented  the  thousands  of  times  that  those  slender, 
sensitive  fingers  had  rested  in  weariness  from  their 
ceaseless  passing  to  and  fro.  It  represented  almost 
the  last  lace-work  she  had  done,  before  those  fingers 
had  at  length  been  held  motionless  in  the  cold 
grip  of  paralysis.  But,  above  all,  it  stood  for  the 
love  of  that  gentle  heart  that  beat  with  so  much 
pride  and  so  much  pleasure,  to  see  the  little  boy, 
whose  head  her  breast  had  fondled,  come  to  the 
stern  and  mighty  age  of  twenty-one.  And  two 
pounds  five  was  the  value  they  put  upon  it  all. 

The  Little  Brass  Man, — the  Chevalier  d'honneur. 
His  story  has  already  been  told — ^his  life,  so  far  as 
it  concerns  this  history.  But  of  what  he  had  lived 
through  in  the  hundred  years  that  had  gone  before 
— nobody  knows.  One  can  only  assume,  without  fear 
of  inaccuracy,  that  it  was  the  life  of  a  gentleman. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE   WAY   TO   FIND   OUT 

These  were  the  thoughts  passing  and  re-passing 
idly  through  John's  mind  as  he  sat,  waiting,  upon 
the  stiff  little  iron  chair  in  Kensington  Gardens,  and 
felt  the  minted  edge  of  the  half-crowns  and  the 
florins  that  lay  so  comfortably  at  the  bottom  of  his 
pocket. 

And  then  came  Jill.     She  came  alone. 

He  saw  her  in  the  distance,  coming  up  that  sud- 
den rise  of  the  Broad  Walk  down  which  hoops  roll 
so  splendidly — become  so  realistically  restive,  and 
prance  and  rear  beneath  the  blow  of  the  stick  in  the 
circus-master's  hand.    And — she  was  walking  alone. 

Then,  in  a  moment,  the  Gardens  became  empty. 
S^ohn  was  not  conscious  of  their  becoming  so.  They 
were — just  empty.  Down  a  long  road,  tapering  to 
the  infinite  point  of  distance,  on  which  her  figure 
moved  alone,  she  might  have  been  coming — slowly, 
gradually,  to  their  ultimate  meeting. 

He  felt  no  wonder,  realised  no  surprise  at  their 
sudden  solitude.  When  in  the  midst  of  Romance, 
you  are  not  conscious  of  the  miracles  it  performs. 
You  do  not  marvel  at  the  wonders  of  its  magic  car- 
pets which,  in  the  whisk  of  a  lamb's  tail,  transport 
you  thousands  of  miles  away ;  you  are  not  amazed  at 
the  wizardry  of  its  coats  of  invisibility  which  can 

98 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    99 

hide  you  two  from  the  whole  world,  or  hide  the 
whole  world  from  you.  All  these  you  take  for 
granted;  for  Romance,  when  It  does  come  to  you, 
comes,  just  plainly  and  without  ceremony,  in  the 
everyday  garments  of  life  and  you  never  know  the 
magician  you  have  been  entertaining  until  he  is  gone. 

Even  John  himself,  whose  business  in  life  it  was 
to  see  the  romance  in  the  life  of  others,  could  not 
recognise  it  now  in  his  own.  There  were  women  he 
had  met,  there  were  women  he  had  loved;  but  this 
was  romance  and  he  never  knew  it. 

With  pulses  that  beat  warmly  in  a  strange,  quick 
way,  he  rose  from  his  chair,  thinking  to  go  and 
meet  her.  But  she  might  resent  that.  She  might 
have  changed  her  mind.  She  might  not  be  coming  to 
meet  him  at  all.  Perhaps,  as  she  lay  awake  that 
morning — it  was  a  presumption  to  think  she  had  lain 
awake  at  all — perhaps  she  had  altered  her  opinion 
about  the  propriety  of  an  introduction  afforded  by 
St.  Joseph.  It  were  better,  he  thought,  to  see  her 
hand  held  out,  before  he  took  it. 

So  he  sat  back  again  in  his  chair  and  watched 
her  as  she  stepped  over  the  railings — those  little 
railings  scarcely  a  foot  high,  over  which,  if  you 
know  what  it  is  to  be  six,  you  know  the  grand  de- 
light of  leaping ;  you  know  the  thrill  of  pleasure  when 
you  look  back,  surveying  the  height  you  have  cleared. 

She  was  coming  in  his  direction.  Her  skirt  was 
brushing  the  short  grass  stems.  Her  head  was  down. 
She  raised  it  and — she  had  seen  him ! 

Those  were  the  most  poignant,  the  most  conscious 
moments  of  all  when,  after  their  eyes  had  met,  there 


100    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

were  still  some  forty  yards  or  so  to  be  covered  before 
they  met.  She  smiled  and  looked  up  at  the  elm 
trees ;  he  smiled  and  looked  down  at  the  grass.  They 
could  not  call  out  to  each  other,  saying — "  How-do- 
you-do.'*  Inexorably,  without  pity,  Circumstance 
decreed  that  they  must  cross  those  forty  yards  of 
silence  before  they  could  speak.  She  felt  the  blood 
rising  in  a  tide  to  her  cheeks.  He  became  conscious 
that  he  had  hands  and  feet;  that  his  head  was  set 
upon  his  shoulders  and  could  not,  without  the  ac- 
companiment of  his  body,  face  round  the  other  way. 
The  correct  term  for  these  excruciating  tortures  of 
the  mind — so  I  am  assured — is  platt.  When  there 
is  such  a  distance  between  yourself  and  the  person 
whom  you  are  approaching  to  meet,  you  are  known, 
if  you  have  any  sensitiveness  at  all,  to  have  a 
platt. 

Now,  if  ever  people  had  a  platt,  it  was  these  two. 
That  distance  was  measured  in  their  mind,  yard  by 
yard. 

At  last  he  held  her  hand. 

"  I  was,"  she  began  at  once,  "  going  to  write. 
But  I  didn't  know  your  address." 

"You  were  going  to  write .'' " 

He  pulled  forward  a  chair  for  her,  near  to  his. 

"  Yes — I  was  going  to  write  and  tell  you — I'm 

terribly  sorry,  but  I  can't  come  this  morning " 

and  she  sat  down. 

A  look  of  deepest  disappointment  was  so  plainly 
written  in  his  face  as  he  seated  himself  beside  her. 
He  made  no  effort  to  render  it  illegible  to  those 
eyes  of  hers. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     101 

"  Why  not?  "  said  he,  despondently.  "  Why  can't 
you  come?  " 

"  Oh — you  wouldn't  understand  if  I  told  you." 

This  was  the  moment  for  the  ferrule  of  an  um- 
brella, or  the  point  of  an  elegant  shoe.  But  she  had 
not  brought  the  umbrella,  and  her  shoes,  well — she 
was  unable  to  come  that  morning,  so  it  had  scarcely 
mattered  what  she  had  put  on.  The  toe  of  the 
shoe  did  peep  out  for  a  moment  from  under  the 
skirt,  but  not  being  approved  of  for  elegance,  it 
withdrew.  She  was  forced  to  fall  back  upon  words ; 
so  she  just  repeated  herself  to  emphasise  them. 

*'  You  wouldn't  understand  if  I  told  you,"  she 
said  again. 

"  Is  it  fair  to  say  that,"  said  John,  "  before 
you've  found  me  wanting  in  understanding?  " 

"  No,  but  I  know  you  wouldn't  understand.  Be- 
sides— it's  about  you." 

"  The  reason  why  you  can't  come  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  another  time,  perhaps." 

Ah,  but  that  would  never  do.  You  can't  tell 
people  another  time.  They  don't  want  to  hear  it 
then. 

"  You  can  tell  me  now,"  persisted  John. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  There's  only  one  time  to  tell  things,"  he  said. 

"When?" 

"  Now." 

She  just  began.  Her  lips  parted.  She  took  the 
breath  for  speech.     The  words  came  into  her  eyes. 


102    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  No — I  can't  tell  you — don't  ask  me." 

But  he  asked.  He  kept  on  asking.  Whenever 
there  was  a  pause,  he  gently  asked  again.  He  began 
putting  the  words  into  her  mouth,  and  when  he'd 
half  said  it  for  her,  he  asked  once  more. 

"  Why  do  you  keep  on  asking?  "  she  said  with  a 
smile. 

*'  Because  I  know,"  said  John. 

"You  know?" 

"  Yes." 

"Then  why " 

"  Because  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  and  because  I 
only  know  a  little.  I  don't  know  it  all.  I  don't 
know  why  your  mother  objects  to  me,  except  that 
she  doesn't  approve  of  the  introduction  of  St.  Jo- 
seph. I  don't  know  whether  she's  said  you're  not 
to  see  me  again." 

That  look  of  amazement  in  her  eyes  was  a  just 
and  fair  reward  for  his  simple  hazard.  Girls  of 
twenty-one  have  mothers — more's  the  pity.  He  had 
only  guessed  it.  And  a  mother  who  has  a  daughter 
of  twenty-one  has  just  reached  that  age  when  life 
lies  in  a  groove  and  she  would  drag  all  within  it 
if  she  could.  She  is  forty-eight,  perhaps,  and  know- 
ing her  husband  as  an  obedient  child  knows  its  col- 
lect on  a  Sunday,  she  judges  all  men  by  him.  Now, 
all  men,  fortunately  for  them,  fortunately  for  every- 
body, are  not  husbands.  Husbands  are  a  type,  a 
class  by  themselves ;  no  other  man  is  quite  like  them. 
They  have  irritating  ways,  and  no  wife  should  judge 
other  men  by  their  standards.  When  she  would 
quarrel,  theirs  is  the  patience  of  Job.     When  she 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     103 

would  be  amiable,  there  is  nothing  to  please  them. 
They  are  seldom  honest ;  they  are  scarcely  ever  truth- 
ful. For  marriage  will  often  bring  out  of  a  man  the 
worst  qualities  that  he  has,  as  the  washing-tub  will 
sometimes  only  intensify  the  strain  upon  the  linen. 

In  the  back  of  his  mind,  John  felt  the  unseen 
judgment  of  some  woman  upon  him,  and  from  this 
very  standpoint.  When  he  saw  the  look  of  amaze- 
ment in  Jill's  eyes,  he  knew  he  was  right. 

"Why  do  you  look  so  surprised.''"  he  said, 
smiling. 

"  Because — well — why  did  you  ask  if  you  knew?  " 

"Do  you  think  I  should  ask  if  I  didn't  know?" 

"Wouldn't  you?" 

"  Oh,  no.  It's  no  good  asking  a  woman  questions 
when  you  don't  know,  when  you  haven't  the  faintest 
idea  of  what  her  answer  is  going  to  be.  She  knows 
very  well  just  how  ignorant  you  are  and,  by  a  subtle 
process  of  the  mind,  she  superimposes  that  ignorance 
upon  herself.  And  if  you  go  on  asking  her  direct 
questions,  there  comes  a  moment  when  she  really 
doesn't  know  either.  Then  she  makes  it  up  or  tells 
you  she  has  forgotten.     Isn't  that  true?  " 

She  watched  him  all  the  time  he  spoke.  He  might 
have  been  talking  nonsense.  He  probably  was ;  but 
there  seemed  to  be  some  echo  of  the  truth  of  it  far 
away  in  the  hidden  recesses  of  her  mind.  She  seemed 
to  remember  many  times  when  just  such  a  process 
had  taken  place  within  her.  But  how  had  he  known 
that,  when  she  had  never  realised  it  before? 

"  What  do  you  do,  then,  when  you  don't  know, 
if  you  don't  ask  questions  ?  " 


104    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

He  took  a  loose  cigarette  from  his  pocket  and 
slowly  lit  it. 

"  Ah — then  you  have  recourse  to  that  wonderful 
method  of  finding  out.  It's  so  difficult,  so  almost 
impossible,  and  that's  why  it's  so  wonderful.  To 
begin  with,  you  pretend  you  don't  want  to  know. 
That  must  be  the  first  step.  All  others — and  there 
are  hundreds — follow  after  that ;  but  you  must  pre- 
tend you  don't  want  to  know,  or  she'll  never  tell 
you.  But  I  am  sure  your  mother's  been  saying  some- 
thing to  you  about  me,  and  I  really  want  to  know 
what  it  is.     How  did  she  come  to  hear  about  me.'*  '* 

He  knew  it  would  be  easy  for  her  to  begin  with 
that.     No  woman  will  tell  unless  it  is  easy. 

**  Did  you  tell  her.'*"  he  suggested  gently,  know- 
ing that  she  did  not. 

"  Oh,  no— I  didn't.     It  was  Ronald." 

**  Ah — he  said  something  ?  " 

*'  Yes — at  lunch — something  about  the  papers." 

**  And  you  had  to  explain  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Was  she  vexed.?" 

"  Yes — rather.  Well — ^I  suppose  it  did  sound 
rather  funny,  you  know." 

"  You  told  her  about  St.  Joseph?  " 

*'  I  said  where  I'd  met  you,  in  the  Sardinia  St. 
Chapel."  She  smiled  up  at  him  incredulously.  "  You 
didn't  think  I'd  tell  her  that  St.  Joseph  had  intro- 
duced us,  did  you?  " 

*'  Why  not  ?     St.  Joseph's  a  very  proper  man." 

"Yes — on  his  altar,  but  not  in  Kensington." 

"Well— what  did  she  say?  " 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     105 


"  She  asked  where  you  lived.* 
«  Oh " 


It  is  impossible  to  make  comparison  between  Fet- 
ter Lane  and  Prince  of  Wales'  Terrace  without  a 
face  longer  than  is  your  wont — especially  if  it  is 
you  who  live  in  Fetter  Lane." 

"  And  you  told  her  you  didn't  know." 

"  Of  course." 

She  said  it  so  expectantly,  so  hopefully  that  he 
would  divulge  the  terrible  secret  which  meant  so  much 
to  the  continuation  of  their  acquaintance. 

"  And  what  did  she  say  to  that  ?  " 

*'  She  said,  of  course,  that  it  was  impossible  for 
me  to  know  you  until  you  had  come  properly  as  a 
visitor  to  the  house,  and  that  she  couldn't  ask  you 
until  she  knew  where  you  lived.  And  I  suppose 
that's  quite  right." 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  John.  "  At  any  rate  you 
agree  with  her.?  " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

It  meant  she  didn't.  One  never  does  the  thing 
one  supposes  to  be  right ;  there's  no  satisfaction  in  it. 

"  Well — the  Martyrs'  Club  will  always  find  me." 
/This  was  John's  club;  that  club,  to  become  a 
member  of  which,  he  had  been  despoiled  of  the 
amount  of  a  whole  year's  rent.  He  was  still  stag- 
gering financially  under  the  blow. 

"  Do  you  live  there  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No — no  one  lives  there.  Members  go  to  sleep 
there,  but  they  never  go  to  bed.  There  are  no 
beds." 

"  Then  where  do  you  live.?  " 


106    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

He  turned  and  looked  full  in  her  eyes.  If  she 
were  to  have  sympathy,  if  she  were  to  have  con- 
fidence and  understanding,  it  must  be  now. 

"I  can't  tell  you  where  I  live,"  said  John. 

The  clock  of  St.  Mary  Abbot's  chimed  the  hour 
of  midday.  He  watched  her  face  to  see  if  she 
heard.  One — two — three — four — five — six — ^seven — 
eight  nine — ten — eleven — twelve!  She  had  not 
heard  a  single  stroke  of  it,  and  they  had  been  sit- 
ting there  for  an  hour. 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHAT    IS    HIDDEN    BY    A    CAMISOLE 

Add  but  the  flavour  of  secrecy  to  the  making  of 
Romance;  allow  that  every  meeting  be  clandestine 
and  every  letter  written  sealed,  and  matters  will  so 
thrive  apace  that,  before  you  can,  with  the  children 
in  the  nursery,  say  Jack  Robinson,  the  fire  will  be 
kindled  and  the  flames  of  it  leaping  through  your 
every  pulse. 

When,  with  tacit  consent,  Jill  asked  no  further 
questions  as  to  where  John  lived,  and  yet  continued 
clandestinely  to  meet  him,  listening  to  the  work  he 
read  aloud  to  her,  offering  her  opinion,  giving  her 
approval,  she  was  unconsciously,  unwillingly,  too, 
perhaps,  had  she  known,  hastening  towards  the  ul- 
timate and  the  inevitable  end. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  after  this  second 
interview  in  Kensington  Gardens,  when  John  had 
plainly  said  that  he  could  not  tell  her  where  he 
lived,  she  had  wilfully  disobeyed  the  unyielding  com- 
mands of  her  mother  not  to  see  him  again.  The 
fulfilment  of  destiny  does  not  ask  for  disobedience. 
With  the  shuttles  of  circumstance  and  coincidence  to 
its  fingers.  Destiny  can  weave  a  pattern  in  defiance  of 
every  law  but  that  of  Nature. 

Jill  had  said  that  morning: 

**  Then  we  mustn't  meet  again." 

"  You  mean  that?  "  said  John. 
107 


108     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  she  replied  distressfully.  "  After 
all,  I'm  living  with  my  people ;  I  must  respect  their 
wishes  to  a  certain  degree.  If  you  would  only 
tell  me " 

"  But  I  can't,"  John  had  interposed.  "  It's  no 
good.  It's  much  better  that  I  leave  you  in  igno- 
rance. Why  won't  the  Martyrs'  Club  satisfy  you? 
There  are  men  at  the  Martyrs'  Club  who  live  on 
Carlton  House  Terrace.  That  is  a  part  of  their 
martyrdom.  Is  it  beyond  the  stretch  of  your  im- 
agination for  you  to  suppose  that  I  might  have  an 
abode  in — in — Bedford  Park  or  Shepherd's  Bush  ?  " 

She  laughed,  and  then,  as  that  stiff  social  figure 
of  her  mother  rose  before  her  eyes  and  she  recalled 
to  her  mind  remarks  about  a  dressmaker  who  hap- 
pened to  live  in  Shepherd's  Bush — "  Poor  thing — she 
lives  at  Shepherd's  Bush — Life  treats  some  people 

in  a  shameful  way "  an  expression  of   charity 

that  went  no  further,  for  the  dressmaker's  work  was 
not  considered  good  enough  or  cheap  enough,  and 
she  was  given  nothing  more  to  do — ^when  she  re- 
membered that,  the  laugh  vanished  from  her  eyes. 

"  Isn't  it  as  good  as  Shepherd's  Bush.'*  "  she  had 
asked  quite  simply. 

Well,  when,  in  your  more  opulent  moments,  you 
have  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  a  better  address 
at  Shepherd's  Bush,  and  have  a  question  such  as 
this  put  to  you,  you  have  little  desire  left  to  reveal 
the  locality  of  the  abode  you  do  occupy.  It  takes 
the  pride  out  of  you.  It  silenced  John.  He  recalled 
to  his  mind  a  remark  of  Mrs.  Meakin's  when,  having 
invited  him  to  take  a  rosy-cheeked  apple  from  that 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE.    109 

little  partition  where  the  rosy-cheelced  apples  lay, 
she  had  thought  by  this  subtle  bribe  to  draw  him  into 
conversation  about  himself. 

"  Don't  you  find  it  very  dull  livin'  'ere  all  alone 
by  yourself?  "  she  had  asked. 

"  Wherever  you  live,"  said  John  evasively,  "  you're 
by  yourself.  You're  as  much  alone  in  a  crowd  as  in 
an  empty  church." 

She  had  nodded  her  head,  picked  up  a  large  Span- 
ish onion,  and  peeled  off  the  outer  skin  to  make  it 
look  more  fresh. 

"  But  I  should  have  thought,"  she  had  added  pen- 
sively— "  I  should  have  thought  as  'ow  you'd  have 
found  this  such  a  very  low-cality." 

And  so,  perhaps  it  was — very  low.  And  if  Mrs. 
Meakin  had  thought  so,  and  Jill  herself  could  talk 
thus  deprecatingly  of  Shepherd's  Bush,  where  he 
had  hoped  to  better  his  address,  then  it  were  as 
well  to  leave  Fetter  Lane  alone. 

"  So  you  have  made  up  your  mind,"  he  had  said 
quietly.  "  You've  made  up  your  mind  not  to  see 
me  again  ?  " 

"  It's  not  I  who  have  made  it  up,"  she  answered. 

*'  But  you're  going  to  obey?  " 

"  I  must." 

"  You  won't  be  here  to-morrow  morning,  at  this 
hour?  " 

"  No— I  can't— I  mustn't." 

"  Not  to  tell  me  how  you  liked  my  short  story?  '* 

"  You  know  I  liked  it — awfully." 

"  And  you  won't  come  and  hear  another  that's 
better  than  that?  " 


110    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"How  can  I?  You  don't  understand.  If  you 
came  and  lived  at  Prince  of  Wales'  Terrace,  you'd 
understand  then." 

"Then  it's  no  good  ray  coming  to-morrow?** 

*'  Not  if  you  want  to  see  me." 

«  Then  good-bye." 

John  stood  up  and  held  out  his  hand. 

If  you  know  the  full  value  of  coercion  in  renuncia- 
tion; if  you  realise  the  full  power  of  persuasion  in 
the  saying  of  good-bye,  you  have  command  of  that 
weapon  wliicli  is  the  surest  and  the  most  subtle  in 
all  the  armament  of  Destiny.  It  is  only  when  they 
have  said  good-bye  that  two  jpeople  really  come  to- 
gether. 

**  But  why  must  you  go  now?  "  Jill  had  said  re- 
gretfully. 

John  smiled. 

*'  Well — first,  because  you  said  you  couldn't  come 
this  morning,  and  we've  been  here  for  an  hour  and  a 
half;  and  secondly,  because  if,  as  you  say,  we  are 
to  see  no  more  of  each  other,  then  hadn't  I  better 
go  now?    I  think  it's  better.     Good-bye." 

He  held  out  his  hand  again.  She  took  it  reluc- 
tantly, and  he  was  gone. 

The  next  morning,  Jill  had  wakened  an  hour 
earlier — an  hour  earlier  than  was  her  wont — an 
hour  earlier,  with  the  weight  of  a  sense  of  loss 
pressing  on  her  mind.  It  is  that  hour  in  bed  before 
rising  that  a  woman  thinks  all  the  truest  things  in 
her  day ;  is  most  honest  with  herself,  and  least  subtle 
in  the  expression  of  her  thoughts.  Then  she  gets 
up — bathes — does  her  hair  and,  by  the  time  a  dainty 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     111 

camisole  is  concealing  those  garments  that  prove 
her  to  be  a  true  woman — all  honesty  is  gone;  she 
assumes  the  mystery  of  her  sex. 

In  that  hour  earlier  before  her  rising,  Jill  hon- 
estly admitted  her  disgust  with  life.  Romance  is 
well-nigh  everything  to  a  woman — for  Romance  is 
the  Prelude,  full  of  the  most  sonorous  of  chords, 
breathing  with  the  most  wonderful  of  cadences — a 
Prelude  to  the  great  Duty  which  she  must  inevi- 
tably perform.  And  this  had  been  Romance.  She 
had  just  touched  it,  just  set  in  motion  the  unseen 
fingers  that  play  with  such  divine  inspiration  upon 
the  whole  gamut  of  the  strings,  and  now,  it  had 
been  put  away. 

Mind  you,  she  knew  nothing  of  the  evolution  of 
the  Prelude;  she  knew  little  of  the  history  of  the 
Duty  to  perform.  It  was  not  the  conscious  loss 
of  these  that  brought  the  disgust  of  life  into  the 
complaining  heart  of  her;  for  Romance,  when  first 
it  comes  to  a  woman,  is  like  the  peak  of  a  mountain 
whose  head  is  lifted  above  the  clouds.  It  has  noth- 
ing of  this  earth;  means  no  such  mundane  phrase 
as — falling  in  love.  To  the  girl  of  twenty-one,  Ro- 
mance is  the  spirit  of  things  beautiful,  and,  there- 
fore, the  spirit  of  all  things  good.  And  Jill  had 
lost  it.  They  were  not  to  meet  again.  She  was 
never  to  hear  another  of  his  stories.  He  was  not 
coming  to  Kensington  Gardens  any  more. 

But  suppose  he  did  come!  Suppose  there  were 
the  sense  of  regret  in  the  heart  of  him,  as  it  was 
with  her,  and  suppose  he  came  to  see  the  place 
where   they   had   sat   together!      If   she   could  only 


112     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

know  that  he  cared  enough  to  do  that!  It  would 
make  the  renunciation  more  bearable  if  she  could 
only  know  that.  How  could  she  find  out?  Send 
Ronald  to  the  Gardens  at  about  that  hour?  He 
would  say  if  he  had  seen  him.  But  if  Ronald  went 
to  the  Gardens,  he  would  be  voyaging  on  the  good 
ship  Albatross,  far  away  out  at  sea,  out  of  sight 
of  land,  in  the  dim  distance  of  make-belief.  But  if 
she  went  herself — just  casually — ^just  for  a  walk — 
just  to  see,  only  to  see.  And,  if  be  were  there,  she 
could  easily  escape;  she  could  easily  creep  away  un- 
noticed. Well — not  quite  unnoticed,  perhaps.  He 
might  see  her  in  the  distance,  just  before  she  passed 
out  of  sight. 

She  got  up  quickly  from  her  bed.  She  bathed; 
she  did  her  hair ;  she  dressed ;  she  put  on  that  dainty 
camisole  with  its  pale  blue  ribbon  twined  through 
intricate  meshes  and  concealed  those  little  garments 
which  proved  her  to  be  a  true  woman — concealed 
them  with  the  camisole  and  the  mystery  of  her  sex. 

At  breakfast,  she  talked  of  having  her  hair 
washed  that  morning.  There  was  no  gloss  in  it, 
she  said.  Ronald  cast  a  glance  at  it,  sniffed  and 
then  went  on  with  his  hasty  mouthfuls  of  porridge. 
What  fools  were  girls !  As  if  it  mattered !  As  if 
anyone  noticed  whether  there  were  gloss  or  not! 
The  good  ship  Albatross  wanted  a  new  spinnaker, 
and  from  whose  under-linen  that  was  to  be  stolen 
without  detection  was  a  far  more  delicate  mat- 
ter. He  had  petitioned  for  white  linen  shirts  for 
himself  for  the  last  six  months — white  linen  shirts 
are  always  valuable  to  a  sailor — but  he  had  not  got 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    113 

them  as  yet.  This  deprivation  naturally  led  to 
nefarious  dealings  with  the  tails  of  his  father's 
old  white  shirts.  It  was  impossible  to  use  his  own. 
You  cannot  have  flannel  sails  to  your  ship,  if 
she  sails  on  the  Round  Pond.  On  the  other  waters 
— the  Atlantic,  for  example — it  doesn't  matter  so 
much.  There  were  one  or  two  things  he  had  begun 
to  fancy  he  would  never  be  able  to  get. 

Quite  simply,  quite  pensively,  he  had  said  one  day 
at  dinner: 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  eat  the  wing  of  a 
chicken." 

They  permitted  him  to  wonder — ^he  and  his  drum- 
stick. One  cannot  be  surprised,  then,  that  he  snig- 
gered when  Jill  talked  about  the  gloss  of  her  hair. 

*'  Well,  don't  go  to  this  place  in  the  High 
Street,"  said  her  mother.  "  They're  terribly  exor- 
bitant." 

"  I  shall  go  up  to  town,"  said  Jill.  And,  up  to 
town  she  started. 

There  are  various  ways  of  going  up  to  town. 
She  chose  to  cross  the  Broad  Walk  with  the  inten- 
tion of  going  by  Bayswater.  She  even  made  a  de- 
tour of  the  Round  Pond.  It  was  nicer  to  walk  on 
the  grass — more  comfortable  under  foot.  It  was 
not  even  an  uncomfortable  sensation  to  feel  her  heart 
beating  as  a  lark's  wings  beat  the  air  when  it  soars. 

Then  the  rushing  of  the  wings  subsided.  He  was 
not  there.  From  that  mighty  altitude  to  which  it 
had  risen,  her  heart  began  to  descend — slowly, 
slowly,  slowly  to  earth.     He  was  not  there! 

But  oh !  you  would  never  know,  until  you  yourself 


114    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

had  played  there,  the  games  of  hide-and-seek  that 
the  big  elms  afford  in  Kensington  Gardens.  On  the 
far  side  of  a  huge  tree-trunk,  she  came  suddenly 
upon  him,  and  the  slowly  fluttering  wings  of  her 
heart  were  struck  to  stillness.  There  he  was,  seated 
upon  his  chair  with  a  smile  upon  his  lips,  in  his  eyes 
— spreading  and  spreading  till  it  soon  must  be  a 
laugh. 

And—"  Oh !  "  said  she. 

Then  it  was  that  the  smile  became  a  laugh. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  at  this  time  in  the 
morning?  "  he  asked. 

"  I — I  was  just  going  up  to  town.  I — I  wanted 
to  go  to  Bayswater  first." 

How  much  had  he  guessed.'*  How  long  had  he 
seen  her  looking  here  and  there,  and  all  about  her.'' 

"  What  are  you  doing.?  "  She  had  as  much  a 
right  to  ask  him. 

"  I've  been  waiting  to  see  you  go  by,"  said  he. 

"  But " 

*'  I  knew  you  were  coming." 

"How?" 

**  We've  been  thinking  just  exactly  the  same 
things  ever  since  I  said  good-bye  yesterday.  I 
woke  up  early  this  morning  wondering  what  had 
happened." 

"  So  did  I,"  she  whispered  in  an  awed  voice. 

"  Then — before  I'd  got  my  coat  on,  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  I  had  to  live  somewhere,  and  that 
the  only  thing  that  mattered  was  whether  I  did  it 
honestly — not  where  I  did  it.  Then,  I  sort  of  felt 
you  might  come  to  the  Gardens^  this  morning." 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     115 

She  set  her  lips.  Once  that  camisole  is  on,  every 
woman  has  her  dignity.  It  is  a  thing  to  play  with, 
much  as  a  child  plays  with  its  box  of  bricks.  She 
makes  wonderful  patterns  with  it — noble  ladies — im- 
perious dames,  who  put  dignity  before  humanity  as 
you  put  the  cart  before  the  horse. 

"  Why  should  you  think  I  would  come  to  the 
Gardens  ?  "  she  asked. 

John   steadied  his   eyes. 

"  Well,  I  presume  you  go  up  to  town  sometimes,'* 
he  said. 

"  Yes — ^but  one  can  get  up  to  town  by  Knights- 
bridge." 

"  Of — course.  I  forgot  that.  But  when  you 
might  be  wanting  to  go  to  Bayswater  first." 

She  looked  very  steadily  into  his  eyes.  How  long 
had  he  seen  her  before  she  had  seen  him.? 

"  Perhaps  you're  under  the  impression  that  I 
came  to  see  you,"  she  said,  and  she  began  walking 
towards  the  Bayswater  Road. 

He  followed  quietly  by  her  side.  This  needed 
careful  treatment.  She  was  incensed.  He  ought 
not  to  have  thought  that,  of  course. 

"  I  never  said  so,"  he  replied  quietly. 

Then  they  fought — all  the  way  over  to  the  Bays- 
water  side.  Each  little  stroke  was  like  velvet,  but 
beneath  it  all  was  the  passion  of  the  claw. 

"  I  expect  it's  as  well  we're  not  going  to  see  each 
other  any  more,"  she  said  one  moment  and,  when  he 
agreed,  repented  it  bitterly  the  next.  He  cursed 
himself  for  agreeing.  But  you  must  agree.  Dig" 
nity,  you  know.     Dignity  before  humanity. 


116    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

And  then  he  called  her  a  hansom — helped  her 
within. 

"  Are  you  going  back  to  the  Gardens  ?  "  she  asked 
from  inside,  not  shutting  the  doors. 

"  No — I'm  going  up  to  town." 

"  Well "  She  pushed  the  bricks  away.   "  Can't 

— can't  I  drive  you  up  ?  " 

He  stepped  inside,  and  the  cab  rolled  off. 

"Were  you  going  to  have  walked.'"'  she  asked 
presently,  after  a  long,  long  silence. 

"  No,"  said  John.  "  I  was  going  to  drive — with 
you." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

EASTER    SUNDAY 

One  Easter  Sunday,  soon  after  his  first  clandestine 
meeting  with  Jill,  John  was  seated  alone  In  his  room 
in  Fetter  Lane.  The  family  of  Morrell  and  the 
family  of  Brown — the  plumber  and  the  theatre 
cleaner — had  united  in  a  party  and  gone  off  to  the 
country — what  was  the  country  to  them.  He  had 
heard  them  discussing  It  as  they  descended  the 
flights  of  uncarpeted  wooden  stairs  and  passed  out- 
side Ills  door. 

"  As  long  as  we  get  back  to  the  Bull  and  Bush 
by  five,"  Mr.  Morrell  had  said  emphatically,  and 
Mr.  Brown  had  said,  "  Make  it  half-past  four." 
Then  Mrs.  Morrell  had  caught  up  the  snatch  of  a 
song: 

"I've  a  tickly  feelin'  in  the  bottom  of  me  'eart 
For  you — for  you," 

and  Mrs.  Brown  has  echoed  it  with  her  uncertain 
notes.  Finally  the  door  into  the  street  had  opened 
— had  banged — their  voices  had  faded  away  into  the 
distance,  and  John  had  been  left  alone  listening  to 
the  amorous  frolics  on  the  stairs  of  the  sandy  cat 
which  belonged  to  Mrs.  Morrell,  and  the  tortoise- 
shell,  the  property  of  Mrs.  Brown. 

Unless  it  be  that  you  are  an  ardent  churchman, 
117 


118     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

and  of  that  persuasion  whicli  calls  you  to  the  kirk 
three  times  within  the  twenty-four  hours,  Easter  Sun- 
day, for  all  its  traditions,  is  a  gladless  day  in  Lon- 
don. There  is  positively  nothing  to  do.  Even  Mass, 
if  you  attend  it,  is  over  at  a  quarter  to  one,  and 
then  the  rest  of  the  hours  stretch  monotonously  be- 
fore you.  The  oppressive  knowledge  that  the  Bank 
Holiday  follows  so  closely  on  its  heels,  overburdens 
you  with  the  sense  of  desolation.  There  will  be  no 
cheerful  shops  open  on  the  morrow,  no  busy  hurry- 
ing to  and  fro.  The  streets  of  the  great  city  will 
be  the  streets  of  a  city  of  the  dead  and,  as  you 
contemplate  all  this,  the  bells  of  your  neighbourhood 
peal  out  in  strains  that  are  meant  to  be  cheerful, 
yet  really  are  inexpressibly  doleful  and  sad.  You 
know  very  well,  when  you  come  to  think  about  it, 
why  they  are  so  importunate  and  so  loud.  They  are 
only  ringing  so  persistently,  tumbling  sounds  one 
upon  another,  in  order  to  draw  people  to  the  fulfil- 
ment of  a  duty  that  many  would  shirk  if  they  dared. 

The  bells  of  a  city  church  have  need  to  be  loud, 
they  have  to  rise  above  the  greater  distractions  of 
life.  Listen  to  the  bells  of  St,  ]\Iartin's-in-the- 
Fields.  The  bell-ringers  there  know  only  too  well 
the  sounds  they  have  to  drown  before  they  can  in- 
duce a  wandering  pedestrian  within.  It  was  just 
the  same  in  Fetter  Lane.  John  listened  to  them 
clanging  and  jangling — each  bell  so  intent  and 
eager  in  its  effort  to  make  itself  heard. 

He  thought  of  the  country  to  which  the  families 
upstairs  had  departed;  bul  in  the  country  it  is  dif- 
ferent.    In  the  country,  you  would  go  to  church 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     119 

were  there  no  bell  at  all,  and  that  gentle,  sonorous 
note  that  does  ring  across  the  fields  and  down  the 
river  becomes  one  of  the  most  soothing  sounds  in 
the  world.  You  have  only  to  hear  it  to  see  the  old 
lych-gate  swinging  to  and  fro  as  the  folk  make  their 
way  up  the  gravel  path  to  the  church  door.  You 
have  only  to  listen  to  it  stealing  through  the 
meadows  where  the  browsing  cattle  are  steeping 
their  noses  in  the  dew,  to  see  with  the  eye  of  your 
mind  that  pale,  faint  flicker  of  candle-light  that 
creeps  through  the  stained  glass  windows  out  into 
the  heavy-laden  air  of  a  summer  evening.  A  church 
bell  is  very  different  in  the  country.  There  is  an 
unsophisticated  note  about  it,  a  sound  so  far  re- 
moved from  the  egotistical  hawker  crying  the  virtue 
of  his  wares  as  to  make  the  one  incomparable  with 
the  other.  John  envied  Mrs.  Brown  and  Mr.  Mor- 
rell  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart — envied  them  at 
least  till  half-past  four. 

For  an  hour,  after  breakfast  was  finished,  he  sat 
staring  into  the  fire  he  had  lighted,  too  lonely  even 
to  work.  That  heartless  jade,  depression,  one  can 
not  call  her  company. 

Then  came  Mrs.  Rowse  to  clear  away  the  break- 
fast things  and  make  his  bed.  He  looked  up  with 
a  smile  as  she  entered. 

"  What  sort  of  a  day  is  it  outside.?  "  he  asked. 

"  Cold,  sir ;  and  looks  as  if  we  was  going  to  have 
rain." 

She  caught  up  the  breakfast  things,  the  china 
clattered  in  her  fingers.  He  turned  round  a  little 
in  his  chair  and  watched  her  clear  away.     This  is 


120    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

loneliness — to  find  a  sense  of  companionship  in  the 
woman  who  comes  to  look  after  one's  rooms. 

"  Whenever  a  man  is  lonely,"  wrote  Lamartine, 
"  God  sends  him  a  dog."  But  that  is  not  always 
so.  Some  men  are  not  so  fortunate  as  others.  It 
happens  sometimes  that  a  dog  is  not  available  and 
then,  God  sends  a  Mrs.  Rowse  to  clear  away  the 
breakfast  things. 

But  Mrs.  Rowse  was  in  a  hurry  that  morning. 
There  was  no  money  due  to  her.  You  would  not 
have  found  the  faintest  suspicion  of  lingering  in 
anything  that  she  did  then.  Even  the  topic  that 
interested  her  most — her  daughters — had  no  power 
to  distract  her  attention. 

She  was  going  to  take  them  out  to  the  country 
• — they  were  going  down  to  Denham  to  see  her  sis- 
ter, as  soon  as  her  work  was  done — Lizzie,  who 
stuck  labels  on  the  jam-jars  in  Crosse  and  Black- 
well's,  and  Maud,  who  packed  cigarettes  in  Lam- 
bert and  Butler's. 

There  were  those  living  in  Peabody  Buildings, 
who  said  that  Lizzie  would  have  a  beautiful  voice, 
if  she'd  only  practise.  She  could  sing,  "  Love  Me 
and  the  World  Is  Mine."  She  could  sing  that 
lovely.  And  Maud — well,  Mrs.  Rowse  had  even  got 
a  piano  in  their  little  tenement  rooms  for  ]\Iaud  to 
learn  on,  but  Maud  would  never  practise  neither. 
True,  she  could  pick  up  just  anything  she  heard, 
pick  it  up  quite  easy  with  the  right  hand,  though 
she  could  only  vamp,  foolish-like,  with  the  left. 

Yet  upon  these  portentous  matters,  Mrs.  Rowse 
would  say  nothing  that  morning.     They  were  going 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     121 

to  catch  a  mid-day  train  from  Marylebone  down  to 
Denham,  and  she  had  no  time  to  waste. 

**  Would  you  mind  me  coming  with  you,  Mrs. 
iRowse.'' "  said  John  suddenly.  As  suddenly  he 
regretted  it,  but  only  because  of  its  impossi- 
bility. 

There  is  some  sort  of  unwritten  law  which  says 
that  when  you  accompany  ladies  on  a  journey  by 
train,  you  must  pay  for  their  tickets,  and  all  women 
are  ladies  if  they  do  not  swear  or  spit  on  the  ground. 
You  should  take  off  your  hat  to  everyone  of  them 
you  know  when  in  the  street.  It  may  be  that  they 
are  charwomen,  that  they  stick  labels  upon  jam- 
jars in  their  spare  hours,  that  they  pack  up  little 
boxes  of  cigarettes  when  there  is  nothing  else  to 
do,  but  in  the  street,  they  are  women — and  all 
women,  with  the  restrictions  here  mentioned,  are 
ladies. 

Now  John  could  not  possibly  pay  for  their  tickets. 
He  could  ill-afford  to  pay  for  his  own.  It  would 
mean  no  meal  the  next  day  if  he  did.  And  here  let 
it  be  said — lest  any  should  think  that  his  poverty  is 
harped  upon — John  was  always  poor,  except  for 
five  minutes  after  an  excursion  to  the  pawn-shop, 
and  perhaps  five  days  after  the  receipt  of  the  royal- 
ties upon  his  work.  You  may  be  sure  at  least  of 
this,  that  John  will  jingle  the  money  in  his  pocket 
and  run  his  finger-nail  over  the  minted  edge  of  the 
silver  when  he  has  any.  If  he  has  gold,  you  will  see 
him  take  it  out  under  the  light  of  a  lamp-post 
when  it  is  dark,  in  order  to  make  sure  that  the  sov- 
ereign is  not  a  shilling.    On  all  other  occasions  than 


122     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

these,  assume  that  he  is  poor, — nay,  more  than  as- 
sume, take  it  for  granted. 

Accordingly,  directly  he  had  made  this  offer  to 
accompany  Mrs.  Rowse  and  her  daughters  to  Den- 
ham,  he  had  to  withdraw  it. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  I  wish  I  could  come — but  I'm 
afraid  it's  impossible.     I've  got  work  to  do." 

Quite  soon  after  that  Mrs.  Rowse  departed. 

"  Hope  you'll  enjoy  yourselves,"  said  he. 

**  We  always  do  in  the  country,"  replied  she  as 
she  put  on  her  hat  outside  the  door.  And  then — 
**  Good-moming,  sir," — and  she  too  had  gone ;  the 
door  into  the  street  had  banged  again,  and  the 
whole  house,  from  floor  to  roof,  was  empty  but  for 
the  sandy  cat,  the  tortoiseshell  cat  and  John. 

He  sat  on  there  in  the  stillness.  Even  the  cats 
grew  tired  of  play  and  were  still.  Then  came  the 
rain,  rain  that  turned  to  sleet,  that  drove  against 
the  roofs  outside  and  tried,  by  hiding  in  the  cor- 
ners of  the  chimneys,  to  look  like  snow.  John 
thought  of  the  tulips  in  Kensington  Gardens. 
Spring  can  come  gladsomely  to  England — it  can 
come  bitterly,  too.  Those  poor  people  in  the  coun- 
try! But  would  the  country  ever  permit  such 
weather  as  this?  Even  supposing  it  did,  they  would 
not  be  lonely  as  he  was.  Mr.  Morrell  had  Mrs. 
Brown  to  talk  to,  and  Mr.  Brown  had  the  company 
of  Mrs.  Morrell.  There  were  Lizzie  and  Maud  for 
Mrs.  Rowse.  Perhaps  going  down  in  the  train,  they 
would  get  a  carriage  to  themselves  and  Lizzie  would 
sing,  "  Love  Me  and  the  World  Is  Mine,"  and  Maud 
would  count  cigarettes  in  her  mind,  and  pack  them 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     123 

up  in  her  mind,  or  more  probably  forget  that  there 
ever  were  such  things  as  cigarettes  in  the  fresh  de- 
light of  seeing  the  country  with  bread  and  cheese 
on  all  the  hedges.  Those  young  green  buds  on  the 
hawthorn  hedges  are  the  pedestrian's  bread  and 
cheese.     But  you  know  that,  every  bit  as  well  as  I. 

Well,  it  seemed  that  everyone  had  company  but 
John.  He  took  out  of  his  pocket  the  last  letter  his 
mother  had  written  him  from  Venice — took  it  out 
and  spread  it  before  him.  If  only  she  were  there! 
If  only  her  bright  brown  eyes  were  looking  at  him, 
what  thousands  of  things  there  would  be  to  say! 
What  short  stories  and  beginnings  of  new  books 
would  there  not  be  to  read  her!  And  how  sympa- 
thetically would  she  not  listen.  How  frequently 
would  she  not  place  those  dear  paralysed  hands  of 
hers  in  his,  as  he  read,  at  some  new  passage  that 
she  liked ! 

"  My  darling  boy '* 

He  could  hear  that  gentle  voice  of  hers — like  the 
sound  you  may  hear  in  the  ring  of  an  old  china 
tea-cup — he  could  hear  it,  as  she  had  dictated  it  to 
his  father  to  write 

"  This  is  where  I  begin  counting  the  days  to  your 
visit.  I  dare  not  begin  sooner — too  many  figures 
always  bewildered  me.  It  is  now  just  about  three 
months.  Your  father  is  much  better  than  he  was, 
and  is  doing  a  little  work  these  days.'* 

And  here  was  added  in  a  quaint  little  parenthesis 
of  his  father's :  "  She  calls  it  work,  my  dear  boy, 
just  to  please  me — but  when  old  men  play,  they 
like  to  hear  it  called  work.     You've  got  to  do  my 


124    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

work.  And  she  is  so  quick — she  has  seen  I  have 
been  "writing  more  than  she  has  said.  I  shall  per- 
suade her  to  let  this  stay  in  nevertheless." 

Then,  uninterrupted  for  a  space  the  letter  con- 
tinued. 

**  Vm  so  pleased  that  your  work  is  going  on  so 
well.  I  thought  your  last  story  was  too  sad, 
though.  Must  stories  end  unhappily?  Yours  al- 
ways seem  to.  But  I  think  I  guess.  They  won't 
always  end  like  that.  But  your  father  says  I  am 
not  to  worry  you  on  that  point;  that  you  can't 
paint  in  a  tone  of  gold  what  you  see  in  a  tone  of 
grey,  and  that  what  you  see  now  in  a  tone  of  grey, 
you  will  as  likely  as  not  see  one  day  in  a  tone  of 
gold." 

Then,  here,  another  parenthesis. 

"  You  will  understand  what  I  mean,  my  dear  hoy. 
I've  read  the  story,  and  I  don't  think  it  ought  to 
end  sadly,  and  you  will  no  doubt  say,  '  Oh,  he's 
quite  old-fashioned;  he  does  not  know  that  a  sad 
ending  is  an  artistic  ending.'  But  that  is  not  he- 
cause  I  am  old-fashioned.  It  is  simply  because  I 
am  old.  When  you  are  young,  you  see  unhappy 
endings  because  you  are  young  enough  to  hear  the 
pain  of  them.  It  is  only  when  you  get  older  that 
you  see  otherwise.  When  you  have  had  your  sorrow, 
which,  you  know,  only  as  an  artist  I  wish  for  you, 
then  you  will  write  in  another  strain.  Go  on  with 
your  unhappy  endings.  Don't  take  any  notice  of 
us.  All  your  work  will  be  happy  one  day,  and  re- 
member, you  are  not  writing  for  hut  because  of  us. 
By  the  way,  I  think  you  spelt  paregoric  wrong.** 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     125 

Now  again  the  dictation. 

**  Well,  anyhow,  though  I  "know  nothing  about  It, 
1  feel  you  write  as  though  you  loved.  You  would 
tell  me,  would  you  not,  if  you  did?  I  am  sure  it 
must  he  the  way  to  write,  the  way,  in  fact,  to  do 
everything.  Your  father  says  the  pictures  he  paints 
now  lack  strength  and  vigour;  hut  I  find  them  just 
as  heautiful;  they  are  so  gentle." 

Parenthesis. 

*'  One  can't  always  love  as  one  did  at  twenty-six 
— T.  G.  That  sounds  like  reverential  gratitude  for 
the  fact,  hut  you  understand  it  is  only  my  initials.** 

"  He  has  written  something  again,  John — and  he 
won*t  tell  me  what  it  is.  If  he  has  said  he  is  get- 
ting too  old  to  love,  don't  helieve  him.  He  has 
just  leant  forward  and  kissed  me  on  my  forehead. 
I  have  insisted  upon  his  writing  this  down.  Your 
story  about  the  girl  in  the  chapel  and  the  last  can- 
dle amused  us  very  much.  It  interested  me  espe- 
cially. If  it  had  been  me,  I  should  have  fallen  in 
love  with  you  then  and  there  for  being  so  consid- 
erate. What  was  she  like?  Have  you  ever  seen  her 
since?  I  can't  feel  that  you  were  meant  to  meet 
her  for  nothing.  I  have  tried  to  think,  too,  what 
she  could  have  been  praying  to  St.  Joseph  for,  but 
it  is  beyond  me.  It  is  not  like  a  woman  to  pray  for 
money  for  herself.  Perhaps  some  of  her  relations 
have  money  troubles.  That  is  all  I  can  imagine, 
though  I  have  thought  over  it  every  day  since  1\ 
got  your  letter.  God  bless  you,  my  darling.  We 
are  waiting  eagerly  for  the  reviews  of  your  new 
book.     When  will  it  be  out — the  exact  date?     li 


126    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

want  to  say  a  novena  for  it,  so  let  me  know  in  good 
time.  And  if  you  meet  the  Lady  of  St.  Joseph — 
as  you  call  her — again,  you  must  promise  to  tell 
me  all  about  it.  Your  father  wants  the  rest  of  the 
sheet  of  note-paper  on  which  to  say  something  to 
you — so,  God  bless  you  always." 

"  Don't  read  the  reviews  when  they  come  out, 
John.  Send  them  along  to  me,  and  I'll  sort  out  the 
best  ones  and  send  them  back  to  you  to  read.  As 
far  as  I  can  see,  there  are  so  many  critics  who  get 
the  personal  note  into  their  criticisms,  and  to  read 
these,  whether  praising  or  blaming,  won't  do  you 
any  good;  so  send  them  all  along  to  me  before  you 
look  at  them.  The  first  moment  you  can  send  me  a 
copy,  of  course,  you  will.     Your  loving  father." 

Here  the  letter  ended.  Long  as  it  was,  it  might 
well  have  been  longer.  They  were  good  company, 
those  two  old  people,  talking  to  him  through  those 
thin  sheets  of  foreign  paper,  one  breaking  in  upon 
the  other  with  all  due  courtesy,  just  as  they  might 
with  a  "  Finish  what  you  have  to  say,  my  dear,"  in 
ordinary  conversation. 

And  now  they  had  gone  to  the  country,  too — 
they  had  left  him  alone.  When  he  had  folded  up 
the  letter,  it  was  almost  as  if  he  could  hear  the 
door  bang  again  for  the  third  time. 

He  leant  back  in  his  chair  with  an  involuntary 
sigh.  What  a  few  people,  after  all,  there  were  in 
the  world  whom  he  really  knew !  What  a  few  people 
who  would  seek  out  his  company  on  such  a  day  as 
this !  He  stood  up  and  stretched  out  his  arms  above 
his  head — it  was 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    127 

He  stopped.  A  sound  had  struck  to  his  heart 
and  set  it  beating,  as  when  the  bulPs-eye  of  a  target 
is  hit. 

The  bell  had  rung!  His  electric  bell!  The  elec- 
tric bell  which  had  raised  him  immeasureably  in  sta- 
tion above  Mrs.  Morrell  and  Mrs,  Brown,  who  had 
only  a  knocker  common  to  the  whole  house — one,  in 
fact,  of  the  landlord's  fixtures !  It  had  rung,  and 
his  heart  was  beating  to  the  echoes  of  it. 

In  another  second,  he  had  opened  his  door;  in 
another  moment,  he  wa3  flying  down  the  uncarpeted 
wooden  stairs,  five  at  a  time.  At  the  door  itself,  he 
paused,  playing  with  the  sensation  of  uncertainty. 
Who  could  it  be?  If  the  honest  truth  be  known,  it 
scarcely  mattered.  Someone!  Someone  had  come 
out  of  nowhere  to  keep  him  company.  A  few  per- 
sonalities rushed  to  his  mind.  It  might  be  the  man 
who  sometimes  illustrated  his  stories,  an  untidy  in- 
dividual who  had  a  single  phrase  that  he  always 
introduced  into  every  conversation — it  was,  "  Lend 
me  half-a-crown  till  to-morrow,  will  you.?  "  It  would 
be  splendid  if  it  were  him.  They  could  lunch  to- 
gether on  the  half-crown.  It  might  be  the  traveller 
from  the  wholesale  tailor's — a  man  whom  he  had 
found  begging  in  the  street,  and  told  to  come  round 
to  Number  39  whenever  he  was  at  his  wit's  end  for 
a  meal.  That  would  be  better  still;  he  was  a  man 
full  of  experiences,  full  of  stories  from  the  various 
sleeping-houses  where  he  spent  his  nights. 

Supposing  it  were  Jill!  A  foolish,  a  hopeless 
thought  to  enter  the  mind.  She  did  not  know  where 
he  lived.      She   might,   though,   by   some    freak   of 


Ub    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

chance,  have  found  out.  But  if  she  had,  would  she 
ever  come  to  see  him?  No,  that  was  too  great  a 
hope — much  too  great — much  too  great. 

Then  he  opened  the  door. 

There  was  no  one.  The  street  was  empty.  He 
looked  up  and  down.  Only  a  widow,  carrying  a 
bundle  under  her  arm,  was  to  be  seen,  walking  slowly 
in  the  direction  of  Holborn. 

Oh,  the  irony  of  it!  Irony  even  in  the  thought 
that  had  he  not  paused  to  dally  with  that  sensation, 
he  might  perhaps  have  caught  the  little  hell-fiend  of 
a  runaway  before  he  got  out  of  sight.  But  no  likely 
imp  was  to  be  seen.  If  there  had  been,  he  would 
have  had  to  suffer,  justly  or  unjustly;  for  there  is  a 
consoling  saying  in  Holy  Writ  that  the  rain  falls 
equally  upon  the  just  and  upon  the  unjust,  and 
from  this,  in  such  a  circumstance,  an  exasperated 
man  can  borrow  what  consolation  he  may. 

Up  the  stairs,  he  toiled  slowly  again,  trying  to 
strain  satisfaction  from  philosophy,  telling  himself 
that  had  there  been  no  runaway  bell,  there  would 
have  been  no  sensation  worth  recording  that  day, 
and  then,  losing  patience  with  it  all  and  the  clock 
striking  one,  he  put  on  his  hat,  went  down  into  the 
street,  and  set  out  for  lunch  to  the  Martyrs'  Club. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THE   FLY   IN   THE   AMBER 

The  sleet  had  driven  honestly  into  snow  by  the  time 
John  had  finished  his  lunch  and,  there  being  but 
two  old  original  members  in  the  Martyrs'  Club,  who 
were  congratulating  each  other  upon  having  put  on 
their  fur  coats,  stayed  in  town  and  not  gone  to  the 
country,  he  left  as  soon  as  his  meal  was  over. 

The  hall-porter  stood  reluctantly  to  his  feet  as 
he  passed  out, — so  reluctantly  that  John  felt  as 
though  he  should  apologise  for  the  etiquette  of  the 
club.  In  the  street,  he  turned  up  the  collar  of  his 
coat  and  set  off  with  determination,  intended  to 
show  the  hall-porter  that  he  had  a  definite  destina- 
tion and  but  little  time  in  which  to  reach  it. 

Round  the  comer  and  out  of  sight,  he  began 
counting  to  himself  the  people  he  might  go  and  see. 
Each  name,  as  he  reviewed  it  in  his  mind,  presented 
some  difficulty  either  of  approval  or  of  place.  At 
last,  he  found  himself  wandering  in  the  direction  of 
Holborn.  In  a  side  street  of  that  neighbourhood 
lived  his  little  typewriter,  who  had  promised  to  fin- 
ish two  short  stories  over  Easter.  She  would  be  as 
glad  of  company  as  he.  She  would  willingly  cease 
from  pounding  the  symphony  of  the  one  monotonous 
note  on  those  lifeless  keys.  They  would  talk  to- 
gether of  wonderful  works  yet  to  be  typed.  He 
would  strum  on  her  hired  piano.    The  minutes  would 

X39 


ISO    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

slip  by  and  she  would  get  tea,  would  boil  the  kettle 
on  that  miniature  gas-stove,  situated  in  her  bed- 
room, where  he  had  often  imagined  her  saying  her 
prayers  in  the  morning  while  a  piece  of  bacon  was 
frying  in  the  pan  by  her  side — prayers,  the  Amen  of 
which  would  be  hastened  and  emphasised  by  the  boil- 
ing over  of  the  milk.  Those  are  the  prayers  that 
reach  Heaven.  They  are  so  human.  And  a  burnt 
sacrifice  of  burnt  milk  accompanying  them,  they 
are  consistent  with  all  the  ritual  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment. 

To  the  little  typewriter's,  then,  he  decided  to  go. 
It  did  not  matter  so  very  much  if  his  stories  were 
not  finished  over  Easter.     They  could  wait. 

He  rang  the  bell,  wondering  if  her  heart  was 
leaping  as  his  had  done  but  an  hour  or  so  before. 
His  ears  were  alert  for  the  scurrying  of  feet  on  her 
uncarpeted,  wooden  stairs.  He  bent  his  head  side- 
ways to  the  door.  There  was  no  sound.  He  rang 
again.  Then  he  heard  the  creaking  of  the  stairs. 
She  was  coming — oli,  but  so  slowly!  Annoyed,  per- 
haps, by  the  disturbance,  just  as  she  was  getting 
into  work. 

The  door  was  opened.  His  heart  dropped.  He 
saw  an  old  woman  with  red-rimmed  eyes  which 
peered  at  him  suspiciously  from  the  half-opened 
space. 

"  Is  Miss  Gerrard  in  ?  "  he  asked. 

*'  Gone  to  the  country — won't  be  back  till  Tues- 
day," was  the  reply. 

Gone  to  the  country !  And  his  work  would  never 
be  finished  over  Easter!     Oh,  it  was  not  quite  fair! 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     131 

*' Any  message?"  said  the  old  housekeeper. 

"  No,"  said  John ;  "  nothing,"  and  he  walked 
away. 

Circumstance  was  conspiring  that  he  should 
Work — circumstance  was  driving  him  back  to  Fetter 
Lane.  Yet  the  loneliness  of  it  all  was  intolerable. 
It  was,  moreover,  a  loneliness  that  he  could  not  ex- 
plain. There  had  been  other  Easter  Sundays ;  there 
had  been  other  days  of  snow  and  sleet  and  rain,  but 
he  had  never  felt  this  description  of  loneliness  be- 
fore. It  was  not  depression.  Depression  sat  there, 
certainly,  as  it  were  upon  the  doorstep,  ready  to  en- 
ter at  the  faintest  sound  of  invitation.  But  as  yet, 
she  was  on  the  doorstep  only,  and  this — this  leaden 
weight  at  the  heart,  this  chain  upon  all  the  energies 
— was  loneliness  that  he  was  entertaining,  a  condi- 
tion of  loneliness  that  he  had  never  known  before. 

Why  had  he  gone  to  see  the  little  typewriter? 
Why  had  he  not  chosen  the  man  who  illustrated  his 
stories,  or  many  of  the  other  men  whom  he  knew 
would  be  in  town  that  day  and  any  day — men  who 
never  went  into  the  country  from  one  year's  end  to 
the  other? 

It  had  been  the  company  of  a  woman  he  had 
wanted.  Why  was  that?  Why  that,  suddenly, 
rather  than  the  company  he  knew  he  could  find? 
What  was  there  in  the  companionship  of  a  woman 
that  he  had  so  unexpectedly  discovered  the  need  of 
it?  Why  had  he  envied  Mr.  Brown  who  had  Mrs. 
Morrell  to  talk  to,  or  Mr.  Morrell  who  could  un- 
burden himself  to  Mrs.  Brown?  Why  had  he  been 
glad  when  Mrs.  Rowse  came  and  unutterably  lonely 


132    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

when  she  left?  Why  had  he  suggested  going  to  the 
country  with  her,  pleased  at  the  thought  that  Liz- 
zie would  sing,  "  Love  Me  and  the  World  Is  Mine," 
and  that  Maud  would  be  counting  and  packing 
cigarettes  in  her  mind? 

The  questions  poured  into  his  thoughts,  rushing 
by,  not  waiting  for  an  answer,  until  they  all  cul- 
minated in  one  overwhelming  realisation.  It  was 
Jill. 

Morning  after  morning,  for  a  whole  week,  they 
had  met  in  secret,  not  In  Kensington  Gardens  alone, 
but  in  the  most  extraordinary  of  places — once  even 
at  Wriggles  worth's,  the  obscure  eating-house  in  Fet- 
ter Lane,  she  little  knowing  how  near  they  were  to 
where  he  lived.  He  had  read  her  his  stories ;  he  had 
given  her  copies  of  the  two  books  that  bore  his 
name  upon  their  covers.  They  had  discussed  them 
together.  She  had  said  she  was  sure  he  was  going 
to  be  a  great  man,  and  that  is  always  so  consoling, 
because  its  utter  impossibility  prevents  you  from 
questioning  it  for  a  moment. 

Then  it  was  Jill.  And  all  the  disappointment,  all 
the  loneliness  of  this  Easter  Sunday  had  been  lead- 
ing up  to  this. 

Common  sense — except  In  that  mad  moment  when 
he  had  hoped  the  bell  had  been  rung  by  her — had 
debarred  him  from  thinking  of  seeking  her  out.  But 
away  in  the  deep  corners  of  his  mind,  it  was  her 
company  he  was  looking  for — her  company  he  had 
sought  to  find,  first  in  Mrs.  Rowse  and  then  in  the 
little  typewriter. 

Shutting  the  door  of  his  room,  he  went  across 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     133 

to  the  chair  by  the  fire.  What  did  it  mean?  What 
did  it  mean?  Here  and  there  he  had  fallen  in  love; 
but  this  was  not  the  same  sort  of  thing.  This  was 
not  falling  in  love.  Falling  in  love  was  quick,  sud- 
den, a  flash  that  burnt  up  all  desire  to  work,  flared 
out  in  a  moment,  obliterating  everything  else.  But 
this  was  slow,  stealthy,  a  growing  thing  that  asked, 
not  for  sudden  satisfaction,  but  for  wonderful,  un- 
tellable  things. 

All  the  attributes  common  to  love,  as  he  had  un- 
derstood it,  had  no  place  in  this  sensation.  As  he 
had  thought  of  it,  love  found  its  expression  in  the 
gratification  of  the  need  with  which  it  had  begun, 
or  it  ended,  like  his  stories — unhappily.  Then  this 
could  not  be  love.  There  was  no  ending  of  gratifi- 
cation and  no  ending  of  unhappiness  to  this.  It 
was  unending.  Was  that  what  his  mother  had 
meant  he  would  learn? 

Then,  as  he  sat  before  the  fire,  wondering  what 
new  thing  he  had  found,  the  bell  rang  again.  It 
found  no  echo  on  this  occasion.  He  slowly  turned 
his  head.  They  were  not  going  to  deceive  him  a 
second  time.  He  rose  quietly  from  his  chair,  crossed 
to  the  window,  silently  raised  it  and,  as  silently, 
looked  out.  There,  below  him,  he  saw  a  woman's 
hat — a  hat  with  fur  in  it,  cunningly  twined  through 
grey  velvet, — a  hat  that  he  knew,  a  hat  that  he  had 
often  seen  before. 

He  closed  the  window  quietly  and  slowly  made  his 
way  downstairs.  Before  he  reached  the  end  of  the 
passage,  the  bell  rang  again.  Then  he  opened  the 
door. 


134.    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

It  was  the  lady  on  whose  behalf  the  fur  coat 
had  discharged  the  debt  of  honour. 

She  stepped  right  in  with  a  little  laugh  of  pleas- 
ure at  finding  him  there ;  turned  and  waited  while  he 
closed  the  door  behind  them,  then  linked  her  arm  in 
his  as  they  mounted  the  stairs. 

"  I  came,"  said  she,  "  on  chance.  Aren't  you 
glad  to  see  me  ?  " 

There  was  just  that  fraction's  pause  before  he  re- 
plied— that  pause  into  which  a  woman's  mind  leaps 
for  answer.  And  how  accurately  she  makes  that 
leap,  how  surely  she  reaches  the  mental  ground  upon 
which  you  take  your  place,  you  will  never  be  able 
truly  to  anticipate. 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  I'm  very  glad." 

"  Then  what  is  it?  "  she  said  quickly.  "  Are  you 
writing. -^  " 

"  No,  I'm  not.     I've  tried  to,  but  I  can't." 

"  Then  are  you  expecting  someone.?  " 

He  looked  up  at  her,  smiled,  opened  the  door  of 
his  room,  and  bid  her  pass  through. 

"  And  is  all  this,"  said  he,  "  because  I  paused  a 
moment  when  you  asked  me  if  I  was  glad  to  see 
you.?" 

She  seated  herself  easily  in  the  chair  to  which 
she  was  accustomed.  She  began  drawing  the  pins 
out  of  her  hat,  as  a  woman  does  when  she  feels  at 
home.  When  the  hat  was  free  of  her  heaps  of 
brown-red  hair,  she  threw  it  carelessly  upon  the 
table,  shook  her  head  and  lifted  the  hair  from  her 
forehead  with  her  fingers.  And  John  stood  by  with 
a   smile,    thinking  how   the   faintest    shadow   of   a 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     1S5 

word  of  question  would  make  that  hat  fly  "back 
on  to  the  head  of  brown-red  hair,  the  hat-pins  pierce 
the  crown  with  hasty  pride,  and  the  little  purse  that 
lay  upon  the  table  alongside  of  them  be  clutched  in 
an  eager,  scornful  hand,  as  she  would  rise,  full  of 
dignity,  to  depart. 

He  let  the  smile  fade  away,  and  repeated  his  ques- 
tion. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  when  you  didn't 
answer  at  once  that  you  weren't  very  keen  to  see 
me." 

"  And  if  I  said  I  wasn't  very  keen,  would  you 
go  at  once.?  " 

Her  eyebrows  lifted  high.  She  made  a  movement 
in  her  chair.  One  hand  was  already  beginning  to 
stretch  out  for  the  grey  velvet  hat. 

"  Like  a  shot !  "  she  answered. 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"  That's  what  I  thought,"  said  John. 

She  rose  quickly  to  her  feet. 

"  If  you  want  me  to  go,  why  don't  you  say  so.^* " 

He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  seated  her 
gently  back  again  in  the  chair. 

"  But  I  don't  want  you  to  go,"  he  replied.  "  I've 
got  a  lot  of  things  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

"  If    you're    going    to    talk    evolution "    she 

began. 

He  laughed. 

"  It's  something  very  like  it,"  said  he. 

She  gave  a  sigh  of  resignation,  took  out  a  packet 
of  cigarettes,  extracted  one,  lit  it  and  inhaled  the 
first  breath  deep — deep  into  her  lungs. 


136    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"'Well,  go  on,"  she  said. 

"  Have  you  got  plenty  of  cigarettes?  " 

"  Yes,  plenty  to-day." 

"  Hadn't  you  yesterday  ?  " 

"  No,  Mother  and  I  raked  up  all  the  cigarette 
ends  out  of  the  fireplaces,  and  I  just  had  a  penny 
for  a  packet  of  cigarette  papers."     She  laughed. 

This  is  the  honesty  of  poverty.  She  would  take 
no  money  from  any  man.  For  just  as  the  virtue  of 
wealth  will  bring  out  the  evil  of  avarice,  so  will  the 
evil  of  poverty  bring  out  the  virtue  of  self-respect. 
In  this  world,  there  is  as  much  good  that  comes  out 
of  evil  as  ever  stands  by  itself  alone.  This,  in  fact, 
is  the  need  of  evil,  that  out  of  it  may  lift  the  good. 

"  Well,  what  have  you  got  to  say .''  "  she  continued. 
"  Get  it  over  as  quick  as  you  can.  I  shan't  under- 
stand half  of  it." 

"  You'll  understand  it  all,"  said  John.  "  You 
may  not  admit  it.  You  don't  admit  your  own  hon- 
esty— you  probably  won't  admit  mine." 

She  screwed  up  her  eyes  at  him.  He  said  the  most 
incomprehensible  things.  Of  course,  he  was  a  crank. 
She  knew  that — took  it  for  granted — but  what  did 
he  mean  by  her  honesty? 

"  I  don't  steal,"  she  said.  "  But  I  owe  fifteen 
pounds  to  my  dressmaker,  and  thirteen  to  Derry  & 
Toms,  and  six  somewhere  else,  and  I  don't  suppose 
they'll  ever  get  paid.     Do  you  call  that  honest?" 

"  I  don't  mean  that  sort  of  honesty.  That's  the 
sort  of  honesty  that  a  dishonest  man  shields  be- 
hind. You'd  pay  them  if  I  gave  you  the  money  to 
pay  them,  or  if  anybody  else  gave  you  the  money, 
or  if  you  made  the  money.    You  meant  to  pay  them, 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     137 

you  probably  thought  you  could  pay  them  when  you 
ordered  the  things." 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  laughed. 

**  You  poor  old  dear !  I  don't  suppose  you've  got 
twopence  in  your  pocket.  You  couldn't  give  it  to 
me." 

*'  I've  got  one  and  nine,"  said  John.  "  But  the 
point  is,  if  I  could  give  it  you,  you  wouldn't  take  it. 
That's  the  honesty  I'm  talking  about.  From  the 
standard  at  which  you  rate  life,  that's  honesty,  and 
you  never  depart  from  it.  And,  in  a  way,  my  stand- 
ard has  been  much  about  the  same — till  now." 

"Till  now?"  She  echoed  it  in  a  little  note  of 
apprehension. 

**  Yes — till  now.  I  thought  these  things  were  hon- 
est— now  I've  changed  my  standard,  and  I  find  them 
different,  too." 

*'  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Her  eyes  looked  far  into  his,  and  he  stood  there 
looking  far  back  into  hers. 

**  You  don't  love  me,  do  you.'"'  he  said  presently. 

A  pause  preceded  her  answer. 

**  No,"  she  said. 

"And  I've  never  told  you  I  loved  you?" 

**  No — never." 

"And  yet,  does  it  strike  you  that  there  may  be 
such  a  thing?  " 

**  Oh,  I  suppose  there  is.  Some  people  pretend 
they  know  all  about  it.  I  think  you're  the  kindest 
and  the  best  person  I've  ever  met — that's  enough 
for  me." 

"  Would  you  marry  me?  "  said  John. 

"  No — never." 


138     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"Why  not?" 

*'  Because  directly  people  marry — directly  they 
find  themselves  bound,  they  look  at  each  other  in  a 
different  light.  The  question  of  whether  it  can  last 
begins  to  creep  in.  With  us,  it  doesn't  matter.  I 
come  and  see  you  whenever  you  want  me  to.  If  It 
doesn't  last,  then  nobody's  hurt  by  it — if  it  docs, 
let  it  last  as  long  as  it  can.  I  don't  want  it  to  end 
to-day — I  might  to-morrow.  I  might  see  someone 
I  liked  better." 

*'  And  then  you'd  go .''  " 

"  Most  certainly." 

*'Well — suppose  you  came  across  someone  with 
whom  you  knew  it  must  last;  from  whom  you  ex- 
pected to  find  those  things  which  go  on  past  time 
and  all  measuring  of  clocks,  would  you  marry  them  ?  '* 

She  came  up  close  to  him  and  laid  her  hands  upon 
his  shoulders. 

"  You  can  tell  me  straight  out,"  she  said  gently. 
*'  One  of  us  was  bound  to  find  it  one  of  these  days. 
I  only  hoped  it  would  be  me.  You  can  tell  me  who 
she  is.    Go  on." 

John  told  her.  This  was  what  he  had  wanted  the 
woman  for — ^first  his  mother,  then  Mrs.  Rowse,  then 
the  little  typewriter,  then  even  Jill  herself.  For 
it  is  a  woman  to  whom  a  man  must  tell  these  things 
— nobody  else  will  do;  nobody  else  will  understand. 

And  when  she  had  heard  it  all,  she  looked  up 
with  the  suspicion  of  tears  in  her  eyes  and  smiled. 

"  Then  I  guess  I'm  the  fly  in  the  amber,"  she 
said.  "  It  won't  be  a  clear  bit  of  stone  till  I'm 
gone.     Isn't  that  what  you  mean?" 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     139 

And,  taking  his  face  in  her  hands,  she  kissed  his 
forehead.  "  You're  a  funny  little  boy,"  she  said 
with  a  wry  smile. 

This  was  the  box  of  bricks,  the  playing  at  her 
dignity.  Every  woman  has  them,  and  while  some 
throw  them  at  your  head,  the  best  make  patterns 
■ — patterns  of  fine  ladies  and  noble  dames.  It  was 
a  fine  lady  who  would  call  him  a  funny  little  boy. 
It  was  a  noble  dame  who  would  show  him  that  she 
was  not  hurt.  He  had  wanted  her  in  his  way,  in 
their  way — the  way  she  wanted  him  as  well.  All 
men  want  some  woman  like  that,  and  there  are  as 
good  women  to  supply  the  need  as  there  are  bad 
ones  who  would  shrink  from  it.  And  now,  he  wanted 
her  no  longer.  She  knew  she  had  to  bow  her  head 
to  something  that  she  could  not  understand,  some- 
thing that  she  could  not  supply.  He  loved.  And 
they  had  so  easily  avoided  it. 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  married.''  "  she  enquired. 
She  longed  to  ask  what  the  other  one  was  like. 

John  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  don't  know.?" 

"  No,  I  don't  know." 

"  Does  she  love  you?  " 

"  I  couldn't  tell  you." 

*'  You  haven't  asked  her?  " 

*'  No — we  haven't  said  a  word  about  It." 

She  smiled. 

"  Then  why  do  you  send  me  away  ?  " 

"  Because — I  know,  myself.  There  comes  a  time 
— I  didn't  know  it — when  you  know — a  time  when 
you  don't  excuse  yourself  with  the  plea  of  humanit}' 


140    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

— when  you  wish  to  offer  no  excuse — when  there  is 
only  one  way,  the  way  I'm  choosing.  I'm  a  crank, 
of  course.  I  know  you've  called  me  that  before.  To 
you  I'm  a  crank, — to  heaps  of  other  people  as  well. 
But  in  the  back  of  this  muddled  head  of  mine,  I've 
got  an  ideal — so  has  everyone  else — so  have  you. 
But  now  I've  found  a  means  of  expressing  it.  You 
say  I'm  in  love — that's  what  you  call  it.  I  prefer 
just  to  say,  I  love — which  is  another  matter  alto- 
gether. People  fall  in  and  out  of  love  like  an  india- 
rubber  ball  dancing  on  a  spray  of  water.  But  this 
sort  of  thing  must  be  always,  and  it  may  be  only 
once  or  twice  in  your  life  that  you  find  a  means  of 
expressing  it.  But  it's  there  all  the  time.  And  one 
time  it's  a  woman  with  dark  hair  and  another  it's  a 
woman  with  gold — but  the  emotion — the  heart  of  it 
is  just  the  same.  It's  the  same  love — the  love  of  the 
good — the  love  of  the  beautiful — the  love  of  the 
thing  which  is  clean  through  and  through  and 
through.  And  when  you  meet  it,  you'll  sacrifice 
everything  for  it.  And  if  you  don't  meet  it,  you'll 
go  on  hunting  for  it  your  life  through — unless  you 
lose  heart,  or  lose  character,  or  lose  strength — then 
this  wonderful  ideal  vanishes.  You  come  to  look  for 
it  less  and  less  and  less  till  at  last  you  only  seek  for 
the  other  thing — what  you  call — falling  in  love." 

"  Do  you  think  we  all  have  this  ideal? "  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,  every  one  of  us." 

"Then  have  I  lost  it?" 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  so.  I  saw  tears  in  your 
eyes  just  now." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   NONSENSE-MAKER 

John  took  a  box  at  the  opera.  There  is  some  sense 
in  taking  a  box  at  the  opera  when  you  owe  two 
quarters  of  your  rent  of  thirty  pounds  a  year.  To 
have  a  box  all  the  year  round  with  your  visiting- 
card  pinned  to  the  door,  that  is  needless,  unforgive- 
able  extravagance,  for  it  does  not  then  belong  to 
you,  but  to  your  friends. 

When  John  '  took  the  stage-box  on  the  third 
tier,  it  was  bread  and  butter,  dinners  and  teas, 
that  he  laid  down  in  payment  for  the  little  slip  of 
paper.  They  did  not  know  that.  The  clerk  at 
the  office  thought  it  was  three  guineas.  He  brushed 
off  the  money  carelessly  into  the  palm  of  his  hand 
without  thinking  that  it  could  be  anything  but 
coin  of  the  realm.  Who  ever  would  go  to  the  box- 
office  of  Covent  Garden,  and,  tendering  ingenuously 
bread  and  butter,  expect  to  get  a  ticket  for  the 
stage-box  on  the  third  tier  in  return?  But  they 
are  not  observant,  these  box-office  clerks,  for  heaps 
of  people  do  it. 

There  was  an  old  lady  just  behind  John,  who 
handed  in  all  her  warm  spring  under-clothing  and 
a  nice  httle  embroidered  lace  cap  that  would  have 
looked  delightful  on  her  white  head  in  the  evenings 
of  the  summer  that  was  to  come. 

"  I  want  a  stall,"  said  she,  "  for  Tuesday  night." 
141 


142     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

And  in  just  the  same  inconsequent  and  unobserv- 
ant way,  the  clerk,  without  the  slightest  embarrass- 
ment, swept  all  the  warm  spring  under-clothing  and 
the  little  lace  cap  into  his  hand  and  gave  it  her 
without  a  word,  but  heavens !  how  insulted  he  would 
have  been  if  you  had  told  him  that  he  was  simply  a 
dealer  in  second-hand  under-linen !  It  would  not 
have  appeased  him  a  bit,  to  tell  him  that  the  under- 
linen  had  never  been  worn,  that,  in  fact,  it  had 
never  even  been  bought. 

Just  in  this  way,  he  took  John's  bread  and  but- 
ter, and  gave  him  the  stage-box  on  the  third  tier. 
It  was  for  the  night  of  La  Boheme. 

On  that  same  night,  Jill  was  going  to  a  dance, 
chaperoned  by  an  older  school-friend  of  hers — one 
who  had  married — a  Mrs.  Crossthwaite.  And  Mrs. 
Crossthwaite  knew  everything;  not  because  she  had 
been  told  it.  That  is  not  the  way  amongst  women. 
They  tell  each  other  what  they  are  pretending  to 
believe,  and  both  of  them  know  all  about  it  all  the 
time. 

There  was  the  invitation  to  the  dance — one  known 
as  a  subscription.  Mrs.  Dealtry  could  not  go.  She 
had  a  dinner  party.  Jill  nominated  Mrs.  Cross- 
thwaite as  her  chaperon,  and  went  to  tea  with  her 
that  day,  having  seen  John  in  the  morning. 

First,  she  spoke  of  the  dance.  Mrs.  Crossthwaite 
was  delighted.  She  had  been  stepping  it  in  the 
heart  of  her  ever  since  she  was  married;  but  only 
in  the  heart  of  her,  and  the  heart  of  a  woman  is  an 
impossible  floor  to  dance  upon.  It  makes  the  heart, 
not  the  feet,  tired. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    143 

Having  won  her  consent — an  easy  matter,  not 
lasting  more  than  five  minutes — Jill  began  gently, 
unobtrusively,  to  speak  of  the  work  of  an  author 
called  John  Grey.  Mrs.  Crossthwaite  had  read  one 
of  the  books,  thought  it  distinctly  above  the  aver- 
age, but  very  sad.  She  did  not  like  sad  books. 
There  was  quite  enough  sadness  in  real  life,  and  so 
on.  All  of  which  is  very,  very  true,  if  people  would 
only  realise  it,  as  well  as  say  it. 

From  there,  with  that  adroitness  which  only 
women  have  the  fine  fingers  for,  Jill  led  on  the  con- 
versation to  her  acquaintance  with  John.  Oh,  it 
was  all  very  difficult  to  do,  for  a  school-friend,  once 
she  has  married,  may  have  become  a  very  different 
sort  of  person  from  the  girl  who  was  ready  to  swarm 
down  the  drain-pipe  to  meet  the  boy  with  the  fair 
hair  and  the  cap  far  on  the  back  of  his  head,  who 
passed  her  a  note  concealed  between  the  pages  of 
the  Burial  Service  in  the  Prayer-book.  Marriage  is 
apt  to  rob  your  school-friend  of  this  courage;  for, 
though  she  never  did  climb  down  the  drain-pipe,  she 
made  you  think  she  was  going  to.  She  had  one  leg 
on  the  window-sill  and  would  soon  have  been  outside, 
only  that  she  heard  the  voice  of  the  mistress  in  the 
corridor  just  in  time.  And  she  sometimes  loses  this 
courage  when  she  marries,  Jill,  therefore,  had  to 
proceed  with  caution. 

They  merely  talked  about  his  work.  He  was  very 
interesting.  His  ideas  were  strange.  Of  course,  it 
was  a  terrible  pity  that  he  would  not  say  where  he 
lived,  but  Mrs.  Crossthwaite  did  not  seem  to  con- 
sider that.     For  a  moment,  she  had  expressed  sur- 


144    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

prise  and  approval  of  Mrs.  Dealtry's  action ;  but  he 
was  a  member  of  the  Martyrs'  Club,  and  Mr.  Cross- 
thwaite's  greatest  friend  was  a  member  there  as  well, 
and  Mr.  Crossthwaite's  greatest  friend  was  natu- 
rally nearly  as  wonderful  a  person  as  Mr.  Cross- 
thwaite  himself.  So  what  did  it  really  matter  where 
he  lived  .P  The  position  of  man  was  his  club.  She 
even  had  no  curiosity  about  his  residence. 

Again,  Jill  had  never  seen  Boheme.  Her  people 
were  not  musical.  They  hated  it.  She  loved  it. 
This  was  the  opportunity  of  her  life.  He  would 
bring  her  back  to  the  dance,  of  course,  and  no  one 
need  ever  know  that  she  had  not  been  there  all  the 
time.  And  in  the  intervals  of  the  opera  they  would 
talk  about  his  work.  That  was  all  they  ever  did 
talk  about.  She  knew  all  his  ambitions,  all  his 
hopes.  Once  or  twice  he  had  accepted  her  sugges- 
tions, when  really  she  knew  nothing  about  it.  It 
was  only  what  she  felt;  but  he  had  felt  it  too,  and 
the  alteration  had  been  made.  He  said  she  helped 
him,  and  that  was  all  that  was  between  them.  The 
main  fact  of  importance  was  that  she  had  never 
seen  La  Boheme,  and  might  never  see  it,  if  she  re- 
fused this  opportunity. 

All  these  specious  arguments  she  put  forward  in  a 
gentle,  enticing,  winning  way — full  of  simplicity — 
full  of  honesty;  but  the  principal  reason  that  Mrs. 
Crossthwaite  consented  to  become  a  party  to  this 
collusion  was  that  she  did  not  believe  a  single  word 
of  it. 

Romance!  It  Is  a  word  In  Itself,  a  thing  In  Itself 
• — a  piece  of  fine-worked  lace  that  must  catch  the 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    14,5 

eye  of  every  woman,  and  which  every  woman 
would  stitch  to  the  Garment  of  maternity  if  she 
could. 

So  it  was  arranged.  In  the  vestibule  of  the  rooms 
where  the  dance  was  held,  John  was  formally  intro- 
duced to  the  chaperon  before  he  bore  her  charge 
away.     Then  they  stepped  into  a  hansom. 

*'  The  Opera,"  said  John,  through  the  trap-door, 
carelessly,  as  though  he  went  there  most  evenings  of 
his  life ;  for  when  you  give  your  bread  and  butter  to 
get  a  box  at  Covent  Garden,  hunger  makes  you  talk 
like  that.  This  is  all  part  of  the  delight  which  you 
miss  in  having  a  box  all  the  year  round. 

And  when  they  had  got  far  away  into  the  traffic 
— that  passing  to  and  fro  of  people,  which  is  all  a 
thumb-nail  illustration  of  the  stream  of  life — and 
when  her  heart  had  begun  to  beat  a  little  less  like 
a  lark's  wings  in  a  six-inch  cage,  Jill  broke  the 
silence. 

*'  What  did  Mrs.  Crossthwaite  say  to  you  while 
I  went  to  get  my  cloak?  "  she  asked. 

"  She  was  good  enough  to  hope  that  I  would  call 
on  her." 

"  Oh !  I'm  so  glad  she's  asked  you.  Did  she  say 
anything  else?  " 

"  She  asked  me  if  I  lived  in  London  all  the  year 
round.  I  said  I  did — except  for  a  month  in  the 
year,  when  I  T^ent  to  Venice.  Then  she  asked  me 
what  part  of  London  I  lived  in." 

"  She  asked  you  that?  " 

«  Yes." 

Jill  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.     It  is  always 


146     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

an  interesting  moment  in  a  woman's  life  when  she 
learns  something  about  her  sex. 

"  And  what  did  you  say?  "  she  asked. 

John  laughed.  He  thought  he  had  said  it  rather 
neatly. 

"  Oh,  I've  got  rooms,"  he  had  said,  "  just  be- 
tween St.  Paul's  and  the  Strand."  Which  might 
be  the  Inner  Temple,  if  you  had  a  nice  mind  with 
which  to  look  at  it.  He  told  Jill  this  answer.  She 
smiled. 

"  And  is  it  between  St.  Paul's  and  the  Strand.?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Roughly  speaking — yes — ^but  very  roughly 
speaking." 

Again  she  was  silent.  Could  it  be  that  he  was 
poor — at  least,  not  well  enough  off  to  live  at  a 
good-sounding  address.?  Could  that  have  been  why 
he  was  praying  to  St.  Joseph  on  the  eighteenth  of 
March.?  Yet  he  was  a  member  of  the  Martyrs' 
Club,  and  here  he  was  taking  her  to  a  box  at  Covent 
Garden.  She  looked  up  quickly  into  his  face.  This 
was  more  mystery  than  her  desire  for  knowledge 
could  afford. 

"  Do  you  remember  what  you  said  to  me  once," 
she  began,  "  about  the  woman  with  the  gift  of  un- 
derstanding? " 

"  Yes — the  first  day  that  we  met  in  Kensington 
Gardens." 

"  Well — do  you  think  I  am  absolutely  ungifted 
that  way?  " 

John  closely  searched  her  eyes.     Did  she  remem- 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     147 

ber  all  he  had  said  about  the  woman  with  God's 
good  gift  of  understanding?  Did  she  realise  the 
confession  it  would  entail  if  he  admitted — as  he  be- 
lieved— that  she  was?  She  was  young,  perhaps — a 
girl,  a  child,  a  baby — just  twenty-one.  But  the  un- 
derstanding which  is  the  gift  of  God,  comes  inde- 
pendently of  experience.  Like  genius,  it  is  a  gift 
and  of  just  such  a  nature.  Absolute  simplicity  is 
the  source  of  it,  and  with  it,  it  brings  the  reward  of 
youth,  keeping  the  heart  young  no  matter  the  years. 
Experience  will  show  you  that  the  world  is  full  of 
evil — evil  motives  and  evil  deeds ;  it  will  teach  you 
that  evil  is  said  of  everyone,  even  the  best.  But 
with  God's  good  gift  of  understanding,  you  have 
the  heart  of  a  child,  knowing  nothing  yet  finding  the 
good  in  everything. 

To  such  a  one,  no  secrets  are  possible,  no  deeds 
can  lie  hid;  for  no  man  does  evil  because  he  would, 
but  because  it  rises  stronger  against  the  innermost 
will  of  him.  And  so  few  are  there  with  the  gift 
to  understand  this,  that  confession  is  seldom 
made. 

And  for  John  to  tell  her  that  she  had  this  gift, 
was  to  make  admission  of  all  he  had  learnt  that 
Easter  Sunday.  Could  it  be  that  she  asked  for  that 
reason?  Did  she  wish  to  know?  In  his  own  way, 
he  had  meant  to  tell  her;  but  not  like  this.  And  so 
he  searched  her  eyes ;  but  searched  in  vain. 

*'  Why  do  you  ask?  "  he  said  at  length. 

"  Because — if  you  think  I  have  any  understand- 
ing at  all,  don't  you  think  I  should  understand,  even 


148     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

if  you  told  me  you  lived  at "     She   could  not 

think  of  a  poor  enough  neighbourhood  where  people 
might  live.     She  scarcely  knew  any. 

"  Shepherd's  Bush  ?  "  he  suggested. 

"  Well— yes— Shepherd's  Bush." 

"  And  so  you  want  to  know  where  I  do  live.?  " 

«  Yes." 

"Why?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  quite  honestly. 

"  Well — pride,  I  suppose.  We're  good  friends.  I 
hope  we  are.  I've  never  had  a  friend  before.  I 
think  I  should  tell  you  everything,  and  I  expect 
I  feel  hurt  because  you  don't  tell  me.  I'm  sure  you 
have  a  good  reason  for  not  letting  my  people  know, 
but  that  hasn't  prevented  me  from  keeping  you  as 
my  friend  against  all  their  wishes.  They  don't  un- 
derstand, I  admit.  But  I  believe  I  should.  I'm 
sure  I  should. 

Her  hand  in  its  white  glove  was  resting  on  the 
door  of  the  hansom  in  front  of  her.  For  a  moment 
he  looked  at  it,  and  then,  with  heart  beating,  in 
fear,  joy,  apprehension — a  thousand  emotions  all 
flowing  into  one — he  took  it  in  his  and  pressed  it 
reverently,  then  let  it  go. 

"  I  know  you  would,"  he  replied  in  his  breath. 
And  then  he  told  her. 

Did  she  remember  Wrigglesworth's  ?  Would  she 
ever  forget  it?  Those  high-backed  seats,  the  saw- 
dust on  the  floor,  the  poll-parrot  in  its  cage  in  the 
middle  of  the  room!  And,  then,  who  could  forget 
the  name  of  Wrigglesworih  ? 

Did  she  remember  the  little  greengrocer's  shop  he 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     149 

had  pointed  out  to  her,  and  how  she  had  said  she 
would  love  one  of  the  rosy-cheeked  apples  that  were 
piled  up  in  their  little  partitions — and  his  reply, 
rather  reluctant,  evidently  none  too  eager  that  one 
of  the  rosy-cheeked  apples  should  be  hers?  Yes, 
she  remembered.  She  remembered,  too,  that  nothing 
more  had  been  said  about  the  apples,  and  that  he 
had  not  reminded  her  of  them  again  when  they  came 
away  from  lunch. 

Exactly — ^because  over  that  very  little  green- 
grocer's shop  in  Fetter  Lane — the  two  windows 
above  the  shop  itself — was  where  he  lived. 

For  a  moment  she  gazed  at  him  in  astonishment; 
then  she  stared  out  into  the  traffic  before  her.  Back 
through  her  mind  raced  the  sensations  she  had  ex- 
perienced that  day  when  she  had  lunched  with  him. 
The  secrecy,  the  novelty,  the  stuffy  little  eating- 
house,  it  had  all  seemed  very  romantic  then.  The 
tablecloth  was  not  as  clean  as  it  might  be,  but  the 
high-backed  seats  had  been  there  for  nearly  two  hun- 
dred years.  One  thing  weighed  with  another.  The 
waiter  was  familiar;  but,  as  John  had  explained  to 
her,  the  waiters  knew  everybody,  and  you  might  feel 
as  much  annoyed  at  their  familiarity  as  you  had 
reason  to  at  the  age  of  the  poll-parrot  and  the  re- 
marks that  he  made  about  the  cooking.  They  all 
combined  to  make  Wrigglesworth's  —  Wriggles- 
worth's  ;  and  she  had  taken  it  for  granted  in  the 
halo  of  romance.  But  to  live  there!  To  sleep  at 
night  within  sight  and  sound  of  all  the  things  which 
her  unaccustomed  eyes  and  ears  had  seen  and  heard ! 
She  suddenly  remembered  the  type   of  people  she 


150     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

had  seen  coming  In  and  out  of  the  doorways ;  then 
she  looked  back  at  John. 

"  Then  you're  very  poor?  "  she  said  gently. 

*'  If  you  mean  I  haven't  a  lot  of  money,"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  poor  is  the  word." 

He  sat  and  watched  her  in  silence.  She  was 
thinking  very  fast.  He  could  see  the  thoughts, 
as  you  see  cloud  shadows  creeping  across  water — 
passing  through  her  eyes.  Even  now,  he  knew  that 
she  would  understand  in  the  face  of  all  upbringing, 
all  hereditary  ideas.  But  he  waited  for  her  to  speak 
again.  The  moment  was  hers.  He  trusted  her  to 
make  the  best  of  it. 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  me  to  come  and  see  your 
rooms  after  we'd  had  lunch  at  Wrigglesworth's  ?  " 
she  said  presently  and,  expecting  simplicity,  count- 
ing upon  understanding,  even  he  was  surprised. 

"  Ask  you  there.''  To  those  rooms .'^  Over  the  lit- 
tle greengrocer's  shop?  Up  those  uncarpeted 
wooden  stairs  ?  " 

And  then  they  found  themselves  under  the  portico 
of  the  Opera  House ;  in  another  moment  in  the  crush 
of  people  in  the  vestibule;  then  making  their  way 
round  the  cheaply-papered  boxes  along  the  ugly  lit- 
tle passages  to  the  stage-box  on  the  third  tier. 

The  attendant  threw  open  the  door.  Like  chil- 
dren, who  have  been  allowed  down  to  the  drawing- 
room  after  dinner,  they  walked  in.  And  it  was  all 
very  wonderful,  the  sky  of  brilliant  lights  and  the 
sea  of  human  beings  belcr  them.  It  was  real  ro- 
mance to  be  perched  away  up  in  a  little  box  in  the 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    151 

great  wall — a  little  box  which  shut  them  in  so  safely 
and  so  far  away  from  all  those  people  to  whom 
they  were  so  near.  Her  heart  was  beating  with  the 
Bense  of  anticipation  and  fear  for  the  fruit  which 
their  hands  had  stolen.  For  the  first  ten  minutes, 
she  would  scarcely  have  been  surprised  had  the  door 
of  the  box  opened  behind  them  and  her  mother  ap- 
peared in  a  vision  of  wrath  and  justice.  Some 
things  seem  too  good  to  be  true,  too  wonderful  to 
last,  too  much  to  have  hoped  for.  And  Romance  is 
just  that  quality  of  real  life  which  happens  to  be 
full  of  them. 

From  the  moment  that  the  curtain  rose  upon  the 
life  of  these  four  happy-go-lucky  Bohemians,  to  the 
moment  when  it  fell  as  Rudolfo  and  Mimi  set  off  to 
the  cafe,  these  two  sat  in  their  third-tier  box  like 
mice  in  a  cage,  never  moving  a  finger,  never  stirring 
an  eye.  Only  John's  nostrils  quivered  and  once  or 
twice  there  passed  a  ripple  down  Jill's  throat. 

At  last  fell  the  curtain,  one  moment  of  stillness  to 
follow  and,  shattering  that  stillness  then  into  a 
thousand  little  pieces,  the  storm  of  the  clapping  of 
hands. 

Music  is  a  drug,  a  subtle  potion  of  sound  made 
liquid,  which  one  drinks  without  knowing  what 
strange  effect  it  may  or  may  not  have 'upon  the 
blood.  To  some  it  is  harmless,  ineffectual,  passing 
as  quietly  through  the  veins  as  a  draught  of  cool 
spring  water;  to  others  it  is  wine,  nocuous  and 
sweet,  bringing  visions  to  the  senses  and  pulses  to 
the  heart,  burning  the  lips  of  men  to  love  and  the 
eyes  of  women  to  submission.     To  others  again,  it 


152     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

is  a  narcotic,  a  draught  bringing  the  sleep  that  is 
drugged  with  the  wildest  and  most  Impossible  of 
dreams.  But  some  there  are,  who  by  this  philtre 
are  imbued  with  all  the  knowledge  of  the  good,  are 
stirred  to  the  desire  to  reach  forward  just  that 
hand's  stretch  which  in  such  a  moment  but  separates 
the  divine  in  the  human  from  the  things  which  are 
infinite. 

This  was  the  power  that  music  had  upon  John. 

While  the  applause  was  still  vibrating  through 
the  house,  while  the  curtain  was  still  rising  and 
falling  to  the  repeated  appearances  of  the  players, 
he  slipped  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  took  something 
quickly  out,  and  when  she  turned  after  the  final 
curtain  fall,  Jill  beheld,  standing  upon  the  velvet 
railing  of  the  box,  a  little  man  all  in  brass,  with 
one  hand  resting  aristocratically  upon  his  hip  and 
the  other  stretched  out  as  though  to  take  her 
own. 

Surprise  and  question  filled  her  eyes.  She 
looked  up  at  John.  She  looked  back  at  the  little 
brass  man,  and  the  little  brass  man  looked  back  at 
her.  It  may  not  have  been  that  he  raised  his  hat; 
but  he  had  all  the  appearance  of  having  just  done  so. 

*' Did  you  put  that  there?"  she  asked. 

John  nodded.  She  picked  him  up,  and  once  her 
fingers  had  touched  him,  the  spell  of  his  dignity  was 
cast. 

"What  is  he?  Where  did  you  get  him?  What 
does  he  mean  ? "  One  question  fell  fast  upon  an- 
other. 

"  He's  my  little  brass  man,"  said  John.     "  He's 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     153 

an  old  seal,  over  a  hundred  years   old "     And 

he  told  her  the  whole  story. 

When  he  had  finished,  the  curtain  rose  once  more 
— outside  the  Cafe  Momus  with  the  babel  of  chil- 
dren and  the  hum  and  laughter  of  a  crowd  that 
only  a  city  southeast  of  the  Thames  can  know  or 
understand.  Through  all  the  act,  Jill  sat  with  the 
little  brass  man  standing  boldly  beside  her.  When 
it  was  over,  she  turned  to  him  again. 

"  Aren't  you  very  miserable  when  you  have  to — 
to  part  with  him?  "  she  asked. 

**  Very. — He  comes  back  as  soon  as  possible.  But 
I've  made  a  resolve." 

"What's  that?" 

*'  I'm  going  to  put  him  out  of  reach  of  the 
indignity.  He's  never  going  to  the  chapel  of  unre- 
demption  any  more." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"  Give  him  to  you.  You  are  the  only  person  I 
know  of,  who  has  the  gift  of  understanding  pov- 
erty." 

"  To  me  ? "  Instinctively  her  fingers  tightened 
round  him.    "  To  me?  "  she  repeated. 

He  smiled  and  bent  his  head.  "  He  seals  our 
friendship,"   said  he. 

This  was  his  way  of  telling  her  that  he  knew 
she  understood.  The  perfect  nonsense  of  the  gift 
' — a  figure  in  brass  that  cost  seven'  shillings  and 
had  been  pledged  and  redeemed  for  six,  times  out 
of  number — this  had  little  or  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  Everything  in  this  world  is  nonsense ;  the  whole 
of  life  is   a  plethora  of  ludicrous  absurdities,  one 


154     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

more  fanciful  than  another.  The  setting  upon  the 
head  of  a  man  a  fantastic  piece  of  metal  and  call- 
ing in  a  loud  voice  that  he  is  king — the  holding 
aloft  of  another  piece  of  metal,  crossed  in  shape, 
studded  with  precious  stones,  and  exhorting  those 
who  behold  it  to  fall  upon  their  knees — the  placing 
on  the  finger  of  a  little  circular  band — of  metal 
too — and  thereby  binding  irrevocably  the  lives  and 
freedom  of  two  living  beings  in  an  indissoluble 
bondage,  all  these  things  are  nonsense,  childish,  in- 
consequent nonsense,  but  for  their  symbolism  and 
the  inner  meaning  that  they  hold. 

The  crown  is  nothing,  the  cross  is  nothing,  the 
ring  is  nothing,  too.  A  goldsmith,  a  silversmith,  a 
worker  in  brass,  these  men  can  turn  them  out  un- 
der the  hammer  or  upon  the  lathe;  they  can  scat- 
ter the  earth  with  them  and  have  done  so.  From 
the  crown  in  finest  gold  and  rarest  jewels  to  the 
crown  in  paper  gilt,  the  difference  can  only  be  in 
value,  not  in  truth.  From  the  great  cross  in  West- 
minster Cathedral  to  the  little  nickel  toy  that  hangs 
from  the  cheapest  of  rosary  beads,  the  difference  is 
only  the  same.  From  the  massive  ring  that  the  Pope 
must  wear  to  the  tinsel  thing  that  the  cracker  hides 
in  its  gaudy  wrappings  at  Christmas-time,  the  dif- 
ference is  just  the  same.  Each  would  serve  the 
other's  purpose.  Each  would  mean  nothing  but 
nonsense  and  empty  foolishness  except  to  the  eyes 
which  behold  the  symbolism  that  they  bear. 

Yet  they,  because  of  their  meanings,  dominate 
the  world.  Little  pieces  of  metal  of  the  earth's  re- 
luctant  yield — for   the   highest    symbolism    always 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     155 

takes  form  in  metal — they  govern  and  command 
with  a  despotism  that  is  all  part  of  the  chaos  of 
nonsense  in  which  we  live. 

Only  one  form  of  metal  there  is,  which  is  a  mean- 
ing in  itself;  before  which,  without  nonsense  and 
without  symbolism,  a  man  must  bow  his  head — the 
sword.  The  only  thing  in  this  world  of  ours  in 
which  nonsense  plays  no  part ;  the  only  thing  in  this 
world  of  ours  which  needs  no  symbolism  to  give  it 
power.  Yet  in  times  of  peace,  it  lies  idly  in  the 
scabbard  and  there  are  few  to  bring  it  reverence. 

For  the  present,  nonsense  must  content  us  then. 
The  greatest  intellects  must  admit  that  it  is  still 
in  the  nature  of  them  to  sprawl  upon  the  floor  of 
the  nursery,  making  belief  with  crowns,  with  crosses 
and  with  rings — making  belief  that  in  these  fanciful 
toys  lies  all  the  vast  business  of  life. 

Until  we  learn  the  whole  riddle  of  it  all,  the  high- 
est profession  will  be  that  of  the  nonsense-maker. 
The  man  who  can  beat  out  of  metal  some  symbolical 
form,  earns  the  thankfulness  of  a  complete  world 
of  children.  For  with  baubles  such  as  these,  it  is 
in  the  everlasting  nature  of  us  to  play,  until  the 
hours  slip  by  and  the  summons  comes  for  sleep. 

So  played  the  two — children  in  a  world  of  chil- 
dren— in  their  stage-box  on  the  third  tier.  She 
knew  well  what  the  gift  of  the  little  brass  man  must 
mean — the  Chevalier  d'honneur.  John  might  have 
sworn  a  thousand  times  that  he  knew  the  great 
power  of  her  understanding;  yet  such  is  the  nature 
of  the  child,  that  in  this  little  symbol  of  brass — 
as  much  a  nonsense  thing  as  any  symbol  of  its  kind 


156    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

— she  understood  far  clearer  the  inner  meaning  of 
that  word  friendship. 

*'  Will  you  accept  him  ?  "  said  John  gently. 

She  looked  back  in  his  eyes. 

*'  On  one  condition." 

"What  is  that?" 

*'  That  if  ever  we  cease  to  be  friends,  he  must  b* 
returned  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    MR.    CHESTERTON 

It  was  always  a  strain  when  July  came  round,  for 
John  to  amass  those  seventeen  odd  pounds  for  the 
journey  to  Venice.  But  it  was  a  greater  strain 
when,  having  amassed  it,  he  had  some  days  before 
him  in  which  to  walk  about  the  streets  before  he 
departed — it  was  a  greater  strain,  then,  not  to 
spend  it.  For  money,  to  those  who  have  none,  is 
merely  water  and  it  percolates  through  the  tough- 
est pigskin  purse,  finds  it  way  somehow  or  other 
into  the  pocket  and,  once  there,  is  in  a  sieve  with  as 
broad  a  mesh  as  you  could  need  to  find. 

It  was  always  in  these  few  days  before  his  yearly 
exodus,  that  John  ran  across  the  things  that  one 
most  desires  to  buy.  Shop-keepers  had  a  bad  habit 
of  placing  their  most  alluring  bargains  in  the  very 
fore-front  of  the  window.  Everything,  in  fact, 
seemed  cheaper  in  July,  and  seventeen  pounds  was  a 
sum  which  had  all  the  appearance  of  being  so  im- 
mense, that  the  detraction  of  thirty  shillings  from 
the  hoard  would  make  but  little  material  difference 
to  the  bulk  of  it. 

But  John  had  learnt  by  experience  that  if  you 
take  thirty  shillings  from  seventeen  pounds,  It  leaves 
fifteen  pounds  ten,  an  odd  amount,  demanding  that 
those  ten  shillings  be  spent  also  to  equalise  matters. 

15T 


158    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

Then  the  fifteen  pounds  which  is  left  is  still  immense 
and  the  process  beginning  all  over  again,  there  is 
finally  left  but  a  quota  of  what  had  been  at  first. 
With  fifteen  pounds  in  bank  notes  in  his  letter-case 
and  two  pounds  in  gold  in  his  pocket,  he  found 
himself  looking  in  the  window  of  Payne  and  Wel- 
come's, where  a  little  Nankin  milk  jug  of  some  un- 
impeachable dynasty  was  standing  in  all  expecta- 
tion, just  waiting  to  catch  the  eye  of  such  a  person 
as  himself  who  might  chance  to  pass  by. 

That  afternoon,  Jill  was  coming  to  tea — ^her 
first  visit  to  Fetter  Lane,  made,  as  he  thought,  sim- 
ply in  honour  of  his  departure.  And  that  little  milk 
jug  was  begging  to  come,  too. 

He  stood  for  a  while  and  stared  at  it.  It  would 
not  be  more  than  fifteen  shillings — expensive,  too,  at 
that.  Fifteen  shillings  would  make  no  impression 
upon  so  vast  a  sum  as  seventeen  pounds.  A  voice 
whispered  it  in  his  ear,  from  behind  his  back, — just 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  You  want  a  milk  jug,"  said  the  voice,  "  and  it's 
a  beautiful  blue.  It  will  go  wonderfully  with  the 
teapot  and  the  little  blue  and  white  cups  and  saucers. 
Get  it,  man !  Get  it ! "  and  it  reminded  him  in  a 
joking  way,  with  a  subtle,  cunning  laugh,  of  his 
philosophy  when  he  was  a  boy.  "  What  are  sweets 
for,  but  to  eat  ?  "  "  What  is  money  for,  but  to 
spend?  " 

With  sudden  decision,  he  walked  in;  but  it  was 
not  through  the  entrance  of  the  jeweller's  shop.  He 
marched  into  the  confessional  box  in  the  chapel  of 
unredemption.      There,   pulling   out   his   three  five- 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     159 

pound  notes  and  his  two  sovereigns,  he  planked  them 
down  upon  the  counter. 

*'  I  want  ten  shillings  on  those,"  said  he. 

They  were  used  to  John's  eccentricities  there,  but 
they  never  thought  him  so  mad  as  this. 

*'  Why,  it's  seventeen  pounds,"  said  the  man. 

**  That's  quite  right,"  said  John.  "  I  counted  it 
myself.     And  I  want  ten  shillings  on  it." 

Ten  shillings  would  feed  him  for  a  week.  He 
strode  out  of  the  shop  again  with  the  ten  shillings 
in  his  pocket  and  the  seventeen  pounds  safe  in  the 
keeping  of  the  high  priest.  There  was  a  man  who 
owed  him  fourteen  shillings,  and  who,  when  the  time 
came  to  go  to  Venice,  might  possibly  be  induced  to 
part  with  that  necessary  ten,  if  he  were  asked  for  it 
as  a  loan.  A  man  will  willingly  lend  you  ten  shil- 
lings if  he  owes  you  fourteen ;  it  is  the  paying  you 
back  that  he  does  not  like. 

As  he  passed  out  into  the  street,  John  kept  his 
face  rigidly  averted  from  the  little  Nankin  milk  jug. 
He  had  played  that  milk  jug  a  sly,  and  a  nasty 
trick.     It  was  really  nothing  to  be  proud  about. 

When  he  returned  to  Number  39,  there  was  a  man 
waiting  outside  his  door,  a  man  dressed  in  a  light- 
brown  tweed,  the  colour  of  ripening  corn.  He  had 
on  a  shiny-red  silk  tie,  adorned  with  a  pin — a  horse- 
shoe set  with  pearls.  His  face  was  round,  fat  and 
solemn — the  solemnity  that  made  you  laugh.  He 
put  John  in  good  spirits  from  the  loss  of  the  Nankin 
milk  jug,  the  moment  he  saw  him.  Someone  had 
left  the  door  into  the  street  open  and  so  he  had  come 
upstairs. 


160     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  asked  John. 

*'  Well — my  name's  Chesterton,  sir,  Arthur  Ches- 
terton." 

John  opened  his  door  with  the  innocence  of  a  babe, 
and  the  man  followed  him  into  the  room,  closely  at 
his  heels. 

"And  what  do  you  want.?"'  asked  John. 

Mr.  Chesterton  handed  him  a  paper.  John  looked 
it  through. 

"  Yes — of  course — my  two  quarter's  rent.  They 
shall  be  paid,"  he  said  easily.  "  There's  money  due 
to  me  next  month." 

Mr.  Chesterton  coughed  behind  his  hand. 

**  It  must  be  now,"  he  said  quietly.  "  That  is  to 
say — ^I  must  wait  here  till  I  get  it." 

A  bailiff!  And  Jill  was  coming  to  tea!  In  an- 
other half  hour  she  would  be  there !  She  knew  he  was 
poor;  she  thought  Fetter  Lane  a  terrible  neighbour- 
hood ;  but  with  all  her  imagination,  she  had  not  con- 
ceived anything  as  terrible  as  this. 

There  was  only  one  way;  to  explain  everything. 
He  had  a  lady  coming  to  tea  with  him  that  after- 
noon— a  lady — did  he  understand?  Anyhow,  he 
nodded  his  head.  Well — it  was  quite  impossible  for 
her  to  find  him  there — a  bailiff!  It  was  not  his 
fault,  of  course,  that  he  was  a  bailiff,  but  he  must 
see  how  impossible  the  position  was.  The  little  man 
nodded  his  head  again.  Well,  would  he  go  away; 
just  for  a  short  time,  till  they  had  had  tea.  He 
could  return  then,  John  promised  he  would  let  him 
in.  He  knew  that  once  a  bailiff  was  out  of  posses- 
sion, he  was  powerless ;  but  this  was  a  matter  of 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    l6l 

honour.       On    his    honour    he    would    let    him    in 
again. 

Mr.  Chesterton  blinked  his  ejes. 

"  Sometimes,"  he  replied  quietly — "  Sometimes 
they  tell  me  it's  their  father  as  is  comin' — then 
again,  if  it's  a  woman,  she  says  her  husband'll  be 
back  in  a  minute  and  her  husband's  always  a  man 
with  an  'orrible  bad  temper  what's  liable  to  do  dan- 
gerous things.  And  sometimes,  they  say  it's  a  girl 
they're  sweet  on — same  as  you." 

"  But  I'll  swear  it's  true ! "  cried  John  wildly. 

Mr.  Chesterton  smiled. 

*'  Wouldn't  payin'  the  money  be  better  than 
swearin'.'' "  said  he.  "  It's  only  fifteen  pounds. 
Sometimes  they  gets  rid  of  me  that  way — and  it's 
the  only  successful  way  of  doin'  it.  You  see  I'm 
inside  now.  I'm  the  nine  points  of  the  law  now. 
If  I  was  outside,  I'd  be  only  one — you'd  be  the 
nine,  then — see.  You'd  be  able  to  lock  your  door 
and  make  a  long  nose  at  me  out  of  the  window. 
Lord!  the  times  I've  said  that  to  people — and  they 
don't  seem  to  see  the  truth  of  it — not  they." 

John  had  every  sympathy  with  their  obtuseness. 
If  he  saw  the  point  of  it  himself,  it  was  only  because 
he  knew  it  would  not  be  so  in  his  instance. 

"  Then  you  won't  go  ?  "  he  said. 

Mr.   Chesterton  shook  his  head,  quite  patiently. 

*'  Do  you  ever  get  kicked  out  of  a  place  into  the 
street  ?  "  asked  John.  The  man  was  so  small  that 
the  question  would  rise  naturally  to  the  minds  of 
quite  a  lot  of  people. 

He  smiled  amiably. 


162    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Yes — they  do  that  sometimes.  But  two  months, 
without  the  option,  for  assault  ain't  pleasant,  you 
know.  I  shouldn't  care  for  it  myself.  I'd  sooner 
*ave  the  assault,  it's  over  quicker." 

There  are  some  tragedies  in  life  in  which,  if  you 
do  not  find  place  for  laughter,  you  become  melo- 
dramatic— a  sin  which  is  unforgivable. 

John  just  saved  the  position  in  time.  He  sat 
down  in  a  chair  and  laughed  aloud. 

"  And  till  I've  paid  this  money,"  he  said.  "  I've 
got  to  put  you  up.  Where  are  you  going  to  sleep? 
I've  only  got  a  bedroom  besides  this  and  a  cupboard 
that  holds  two  hundredweight  of  coal  on  the  land- 
ing." 

Mr.  Chesterton  looked  about  him. 

"  That  settle  looks  comfortable  enough,"  said  he. 
*'  I've  slep'  worse  than  that."  He  crossed  the  room 
and  felt  the  springs  of  it  with  his  fist.  "  But  it's 
a  small  place.  I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  a  bit  in  the 
way." 

"  My  Lord!  "  John  jumped  up  again.  *'  You  will 
this  afternoon."  He  was  to  have  told  Jill  many 
things  that  afternoon.  Now  this  ruined  everything. 
They  would  have  to  go  out  to  tea,  because  there 
was  no  paying  of  the  money.  He  could  not  re- 
deem his  seventeen  pounds  and  settle  it  with  that. 
There  would  be  nothing  left  with  which  to  go  to 
Venice  and  the  calculations  of  that  little  old  white- 
haired  lady  who  was  waiting  for  him  to  put  his  arms 
about  her  neck  had  become  so  small,  so  infinitely 
small,  that  he  had  not  the  heart  to  add  to  them  by 
so  much  as  a  figure  of  seven. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    163 

*'  And  you  don't  believe  that  a  lady's  coming  to 
tea  with  me?  "  he  said  excitedly. 

Mr.  Chesterton  spread  out  a  pair  of  dirty  hands. 

"  I  know  that  lady  so  well,"  he  said.  "  She's 
always  every  inch  a  lady  who  wouldn't  understand 
the  likes  of  me.  But  I'm  quite  easy  to  understand. 
Tell  her  I'm  a  friend  of  yours.  I  won't  give  the 
game  away." 

Oh !  It  was  ludicrous !  The  laugh  came  again 
quickly  to  John's  lips,  but  as  soon  it  died  away. 
So  much  was  at  stake.  He  had  pictured  it  all  so 
plainly.  She  would  be  disappointed  when  she  heard 
he  was  going.  He  would  ask  her  why  that  look  had 
passed  across  her  eyes.  Her  answer  would  be  evasive, 
and  then,  word  by  word,  look  by  look,  he  would 
lead  her  to  the  very  door  of  his  heart  until  the  cry 
— "  I  love  you"  — the  most  wonderful  words  to  say 
— the  most  terribly  wonderful  words  to  mean,  would 
be  wrung  from  his  lips  into  her  ears. 

And  now  this  imperturbable  fiend  of  a  bailiff, 
with  his  very  natural  incredulity  and  his  simple  way 
of  expressing  it,  had  come  to  wreck  the  greatest 
moment  of  his  life. 

John  looked  him  up  and  down. 

*'  What  sort  of  a  friend  do  you  think  I  could 
introduce  you  as  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Do  you  think  you 
look  like  a  friend  of  mine.?  " 

The  little  man  glanced  down  at  his  boots,  at  the 
light-brown  tweed  trousers,  upturned  and  showing  a 
pair  of  woollen  socks  not  far  removed  in  colour  from 
that  of  his  tie. 

*'  Well — you  never  know,"   said  he,   looking   up 


164    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

again.  "I'm  stayin'  here,  aren't  I?  They  said  you 
was  a  writer — that  you  wrote  books.  Well,  have  you 
never  seen  a  person  who  wrote  books,  like  me?  Why 
there  was  a  woman  I  'ad  to  get  the  rent  from  once 
— a  journalist,  she  called  herself.  She'd  got  a  bit 
of  a  beard  and  a  fair  tidy  moustache — and  by  gum, 
she  dressed  queerer  than  anything  my  old  woman 
would  ever  put  on.  I  felt  quite  ashamed  to  be 
stoppin'  with  her." 

John  laughed  again ;  laughed  uproariously.  Mr. 
Chesterton  was  so  amused  at  the  remembrance  of  it, 
that  he  laughed  as  well.  Suddenly  their  laughter 
snapped,  as  you  break  a  slate  pencil.  There  came 
a  gentle,  a  timid  knock  on  the  door. 

"  This  is  she,"  whispered  John.  "  The  door  below 
was  open.  She's  come  upstairs.  What  the  devil 
am  I  going  to  do  ?  " 

At  last  the  little  man  believed  him.  He  really 
was  going  to  see  the  lady  this  time,  the  lady  who 
would  never  understand  the  likes  of  him,  and  he 
began  to  feel  quite  nervous.  He  began  to  feel 
ashamed  of  being  a  bailiff. 

"  Introduce  me  as  a  friend,"  he  whispered — "  It'll 
be  all  right — introduce  me  as  a  friend." 

*'  Sit  down  there,  then — on  that  settle." 

Then  John  opened  the  door  and  Jill  stepped  hesi- 
tatingly into  the  room.  Mr.  Chesterton  rose  awk- 
wardly to  his  feet. 

This  was  the  lady,  materialised  at  last.  From 
long  habit  of  summing  up  in  a  glance  the  people 
with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  he  made  his  estimation 
of  Jill  in  a  moment.     The  quietness  of  her  voice  as 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     l65 

she  said — "  I  was  rather  afraid  to  knock,  for  fear 
I  had  made  a  mistake  " — that  gentleness  in  the  depth 
of  the  eyes  which  admits  of  no  sudden  understand- 
ing, yet  as  gently  asks  for  it — the  firm  repose  of 
the  lips  already  moulded  for  the  strength  which 
comes  with  maturity,  and  all  set  in  a  face  whose 
whole  expression  was  that  innocence  of  a  mind  which 
knows  and  has  put  aside  until  such  moment  when 
life  shall  demand  contemplation.  This — there  was 
no  doubt  of  it — was  the  lady  who  would  not  under- 
stand the  likes  of  him. 

John  shook  hands  with  her.  Mr.  Chesterton  took 
it  all  in  with  his  httle  solemn  eyes.  He  was  in  the 
way.  Never  had  he  been  so  much  in  the  way  before. 
As  their  hands  touched,  he  felt  that  John  was  tell- 
ing her  just  how  much  in  the  way  he  was. 

"  May  I  introduce  you,"  said  John,  turning,  when 
that  touching  of  the  hands  was  done  with.     "  This 

is  my  friend — Mr.  Chesterton.   Miss "  he  paused. 

It  seemed  sacrilege  to  give  her  name  to  a  bailiff, 
and  the  little  man  felt  sensitively,  in  his  boots  every 
moment  of  that  pause.  His  red  socks  were  burning 
him.  He  could  see  the  colour  of  his  tie  in  every 
reflection.     It  was  even  creeping  up  into  his  cheeks. 

"Miss  Dealtry." 

He  was  going  to  come  forward  and  shake  hands, 
but  she  bowed.  Then,  when  she  saw  his  confusion, 
out,  generously,  came  her  hand. 

"  Are  you  a  writer,  too  ?  "  she  asked. 

John  was  about  to  interpose;  but  the  little  man 
wanted  to  stand  well  witli  her.  He  felt  that  his 
socks  and  his  tie  and  his  corn-coloured  suit  ought  all 


166    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

to    be    explained,    and    what    more    lucid   or    more 
natural  explanation  than  this. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'm  a  writer,"  he  said  quickly.  "  Books, 
you  know — and  a  little  journalism — just  to — to  keep 
me  goin' — to  amuse  myself  like.  Journalism's  a 
change,  you  know — what  you  might  call  a  rest, 
when  your  always  writin'  books "  Then  he  re- 
membered a  quotation,  but  where  from,  he  could  not 
say,  "  Of  the  writin'  of  books,  you  know — at  least,  so 
they  say — there's  no  end."  And  he  smiled  with 
pleasure  to  think  how  colloquially  he  had  delivered 
the  phrase. 

"  Why,  of  course,  I  know  your  work,"  said  Jill 
•A"  Aren't  you  the  Mr.  Chesterton  ?  " 
/     The  little   man's   face  beamed.     That  was  just 
what  they  all  called  him — the  Mr.  Chesterton. 

"  That's  right,"  said  he  dehghtedly,  "  the  one  and 
only."  And  under  the  mantle  of  genius  and  celebrity 
his  quaintnesses  became  witticisms,  his  merest  phr^^se 
a  paradox. 


CHAPTER    XX 

WHY   JILL   PRAYED   TO    ST.   JOSEPH 

Little  as  you  might  have  Imagined  it,  there  was  a 
heart  beneath  that  corn-coloured  waistcoat  of  Mr. 
Chesterton's.  His  old  woman,  as  he  called  her, 
would  have  vouched  for  that. 

**  He  may  have  to  do  some  dirty  tricks  in  his 
job,"  she  had  said  of  him.  "  But  Vs  got  a  'eart, 
'as  my  young  man,  if  you  know  where  to  touch  it." 

And  seemingly,  Jill  had  known ;  tho'  the  knowl- 
edge was  unconscious.  It  was  just  that  she  had 
believed — that  was  all.  She  had  believed  he  was 
the  Mr.  Chesterton,  presumbably  a  great  writer,  a 
man  to  command  respect.  He  had  never  commanded 
respect  before  in  his  life.  Abuse!  Plenty  of  that! 
So  much  of  it  that  his  skin  had  become  hardened 
and  tough.     But  respect — never. 

Ah!  She  was  a  lady,  certainly — a  delightful, 
a  charming  young  lady.  He  could  quite  believe 
that  she  would  not  understand  the  likes  of  him. 
He  would  even  dare  to  swear,  and  did,  when  even- 
tually he  went  home  to  his  old  woman,  that  she 
had  never  heard  of  a  bailiff  in  her  life. 

And  while  John  laid  out  the  tea  things,  she 
talked  to  him  all  the  time  as  if  he  were  a  great 
man — bless  her  little  heart!  He  was  a  fine  fellow, 
whoever  this  Chesterton  was,  and  he  seemed  to  have 
said  some  mighty  smart  things.    Anyhow,  if  writing 

167 


168    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

books  was  not  a  paying  game,  as,  judging  by  this 
young  Mr.  Grey,  it  would  not  seem  to  be,  it  cer- 
tainly brought  one  a  deal  of  credit.  The  little  bailiff 
basked  in  the  light  of  it,  feeling  like  a  beggar  who 
has  awakened  in  the  King's  bed-chamber,  ensconced 
in  the  King's  bed.  Only  when,  occasionally  he  caught 
sight  of  the  expression  on  John's  face,  did  he  realise 
how  abominably  he  must  be  in  the  way. 

At  last,  when  tea  was  ready,  the  kettle  spitting 
on  the  little  spirit  stove  in  the  grate,  Mr.  Chester- 
ton rose  to  his  feet.  A  look  had  passed  between 
those  two,  a  look  unmistakable  to  his  eyes — a  look 
of  mute  appeal  from  her,  an  answering  look  of  de- 
spair from  John.  Had  it  been  John  alone,  he  would 
have  taken  no  notice.  John  had  been  making  gri- 
maces to  himself  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour ;  be- 
sides, he  had  brought  it  on  himself.  Young  men 
should  pay  their  rent  up  to  time.  He  had  little 
or  no  sympathy  for  John.  But  when  he  saw  that 
look  in  Jill's  eyes,  realising  that  it  was  only  her  gen- 
tle politeness  which  made  her  talk  to  him  so  nicely 
— only  her  gentle  politeness  and  the  kudos  which  he 
had  stolen  from  the  name  of  Chesterton — then,  he 
felt  he  could  stay  there  no  longer.  He  had  always 
had  a  tender  heart  for  women,  so  long  as  they  were 
not  unsexed  by  journalism,  by  a  bit  of  a  beard  and 
a  fair  tidy  moustache.  He  had  no  sympathy  for 
them  then  if  their  rents  were  overdue.  But  now,  this 
was  a  different  matter.  That  look  in  Jill's  eyes  had 
cut  him  to  the  quick. 

"  I've  got  to  be  goin'  now,  Mr.  Grey,"  he  said. 

John's  mouth  opened  in  amazement.    He  had  just 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     169 

decided  in  his  mind  that  Kensington  Gardens  was 
the  only  place  left  to  them  from  this  abominable 
interloper. 

**  Going? "  he  echoed.  It  might  almost  have 
seemed  as  if  he  were  intensely  sorry,  his  surprise 
was  so  great. 

"  Yes — goin',"  said  Mr.  Chesterton  with  a  look 
that  meant  the  absolute  certainty  of  his  return. 
*'  Good-bye,  Miss  Dealtry — you'll  excuse  me  runnin' 
away,  won't  you-f*  Time  and  tide — they  won't  wait, 
you  know — they're  just  like  a  pair  o'  children  goin' 
to  a  circus.     They  don't  want  to  miss  nuthin'." 

Now  that  was  his  own,  his  very  own !  He  had  been 
determined  all  through  their  conversation  to  work  in 
something  of  his  own.  The  great  Mr.  Chesterton 
had  never  said  that !  This  credit  of  being  another 
man,  and  gleaning  all  the  approbation  that  did  not 
belong  to  him,  had  brought  with  it  its  moments  of 
remorse,  and  he  longed  to  win  her  approval  for  some- 
thing that  was  truly,  really  his. 

He  looked  proudly  at  John  as  he  said  it.  He 
laughed  loudly  at  the  thought  of  the  two  children 
dragging  at  their  mother's  hands  all  the  way  to  the 
circus.  It  was  a  real  picture  to  him.  He  could  see 
it  plainly.  He  had  been  one  of  those  children  him- 
self once.  Time  and  tide — like  a  pair  o'  children 
goin'  to  a  circus !  He  thought  it  excellent — good, 
and  he  laughed  and  laughed,  till  suddenly  he  realised 
that  John  was  not  even  smiling.  Then  wasn't  it 
funny  after  all.?  Wasn't  it  clever.?  Yet  the  things 
which  this  Mr.  Chesterton  was  reputed  to  have  writ- 
ten, were  quite  unintelligible  to  him. 


170    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  The  apple  which  Eve  ate  in  the  Garden  of  Eden 
was  an  orange  and  the  peel  has  been  lying  about 
ever  since." 

Where  was  the  sense  in  that?  How  could  an  apple 
be  an  orange.  But  Time  and  Tide,  like  a  pair  o' 
children  going  to  a  circus !  Oh — he  thought  it  ex- 
cellent. 

Then,  with  a  pitiable  sensation  of  failure,  he  turned 
in  almost  an  attitude  of  appeal  to  Jill.  But  she  was 
smiling.  She  was  amused.  Then  there  was  some- 
thing in  it  after  all !  It  had  amused  her.  He  held 
out  his  hand,  feeling  a  wild  inclination  to  grip  it 
fiercely  and  bless  her  for  that  smile. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  he  in  his  best  and  most  elaborate 
of  manners.  "  I'm  very  pleased  to  have  made  your 
acquaintance,"  and  he  marched,  with  head  erect,  to 
the  door. 

John  followed  him. 

"  I'll  just  come  down  with  you,"  he  said. 

As  soon  as  they  were  outside  and  the  door  was 
closed,  he  caught  the  little  man's  hand  warmly  in 
his. 

"  You're  a  brick,"  said  he.  "  You're  a  brick.  I'll 
let  you  in  whenever  you  come  back — ^you  needn't 
be  afraid." 

Mr.  Chesterton  stopped  on  the  stairs  as  they  de- 
scended. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  done  it,"  he  said  emphatically 
— "  if  it  wasn't  that  she  was  a  lady  as  wouldn't 
understand  the  likes  of  me.  I  tell  you,  she's  a  sort 
of  lady  as  I  shall  never  come  across  again, — not 
even  in  my  line  of  business, — bless  her  heart."     He 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     171 

descended  another  step  or  so,  then  stopped  once 
more.  *'  See  the  way  she  smiled  at  that  what  I  said. 
I  tell  you,  she's  got  a  nicer  sense  of  understandin* 
than  what  you  have." 

John  smiled. 

**  I  know  she  has,"  said  he. 

*'  I  suppose  you  didn't  think  that  clever,  what  I 
said.?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do — I  do.  I  don't  even  think  the 
Mr.  Chesterton  would  have  thought  of  that." 

*'  Don'tcher  really,  now  ?     Don'tcher  really  ?  " 

John  had  not  smiled;  but  this — well,  of  course, 
this  made  up  for  everything.  The  Mr.  Chesterton 
would  not  have  thought  of  Time  and  Tide  being 
like  a  pair  of  children  goin'  to  a  circus !  Now,  if 
he  were  to  write  that  and  a  few  other  things  hke  it, 
which  he  dared  say  he  could  think  of  easily  enough, 
he,  too,  might  be  a  great  man  whose  name  would 
be  on  the  lips  of  such  women  as  that  perfect  little 
lady  upstairs.  Then  she  would  understand  the  hkes 
of  him. 

"  Then  you  think  I  suited  the  part .?  "  he  said 
cheerfully  at  the  door. 

"  I  think,  under  the  circumstances  and  everything 
being  considered,  you  did  it  wonderfully,"  said  John. 
"  And  as  for  your  being  good  enough  to  trust  me 
— well — it's  finer  than  all  the  epigrams  in  the  world." 

He  wrung  his  hand  once  more  and  the  little  man 
departed  happily  down  the  Lane,  thinking  of  all  the 
clever  things  that  he  would  say  to  his  old  woman 
when  eventually  he  got  home.  But — Time  and  Tide, 
like  a  pair  of  children — he  knew  he'd  never  beat  that. 


172    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

She  had  smiled  at  it.  She  had  thought  it  clever. 
The  other  things  that  came  laboriously  into  his  mind 
as  he  walked  down  the  Lane,  were  not  a  patch  on  it. 

The  moment  John  had  closed  the  door,  he  flew 
upstairs. 

"  Well — what  do  you  think  of  the  great  Mr.  Ches- 
terton ?  "  he  asked  with  a  laugh. 

"  I  do  not  think  his  conversation  is  nearly  as 
good  as  his  writing,"  said  Jill. 

"  But  you   smiled   at  that  last  thing  he  said." 

*'  Yes,  I  know."  She  explained  it  first  with  her 
eyes  and  then,  "  He  was  going,"  she  added — ^**  and 
I  think  it  must  have  been  relief." 

John's  heart  thumped.  A  light  of  daring  blazed 
in  his  eyes.  It  was  relief !  She  was  glad  to  be  alone 
with  him!  This  meant  more  than  the  look  of  dis- 
appointment. He  had  crossed  the  room,  found  him- 
self beside  her,  found  her  hand  gripped  fiercely  in 
his  before  he  realised  that  he  had  obeyed  the  volition 
to  do  so. 

"  You  wanted  us  to  be  alone?  "  he  whispered. 

"  Yes — I've  got  a  lot  I  want  to  say," 

Had  the  moment  not  been  such  as  this,  he  would 
have  caught  the  note  of  pain  that  vibrated  in  her 
voice;  but  he  was  in  the  whirlwind  of  his  love.  It 
was  deafening  in  his  ears,  it  was  blinding  in  his 
eyes ;  because  then  he  knew  she  loved  him  also.  He 
heard  nothing.  He  saw  nothing.  Her  hand  was  to 
his  lips  and  he  was  kissing  every  finger. 

Presently  he  held  her  hand  to  him  and  looked  up. 

"You  knew  this,"  he  said — "didn't  you?  You 
knew  this  was  bound  to  be?  " 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    173 

She  bent  her  head. 

*'  I  don't  know  what  it  means,"  he  went  on  pas- 
sionately. "  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  it 
means.  I  love  you — that's  all.  You  mean  every- 
thing to  me.  But  I  can't  ask  you  to  marry  me. 
It  wouldn't  be  fair."  A  thought  of  Mr.  Chester- 
ton rushed  across  his  mind,  "  I — I  can  barely  keep 
myself  in  rooms  like  these.  I  couldn't  keep  you. 
So  I  suppose  I  haven't  a  moment's  right  to  say 
one  of  these  things  to  you.  But  I  had  to  say  them. 
You  knew  I  was  going  to  say  them — didn't  you — Jill 
— my  Jill — you  knew — didn't  you?" 

She  let  him  take  both  her  hands  in  his ;  she  let 
Aim  drag  them  to  his  shoulders  and  press  them  there. 
But  she  bent  her  head  forward.  She  hid  her  face 
from  his.  There  was  that  which  she  had  to  tell 
him,  things  which  she  had  to  say,  that  must  be 
told  before  he  could  blame  himself  any  more  for  the 
love  he  had  offered.  She  had  known  it  was  coming. 
He  was  quite  right ;  she  had  known  all  he  was  going 
to  say,  realised  it  ever  since  that  day  when  they  had 
quarrelled  in  Kensington  Gardens.  All  the  moments 
between  until  this,  had  been  a  wonderful  anticipa- 
tion. A  thousand  times  her  breath  had  caught; 
a  thousand  times  her  heart  had  thumped,  thinking 
he  was  about  to  speak;  and  through  it  all,  just 
these  few  weeks  or  so,  the  anxious  longing,  the  tire- 
less praying  that  what  she  had  now  to  say  need 
never  be  said. 

For  a  little  while  she  let  him  hold  her  so.  It 
would  be  the  last  time.  God  had  been  talking,  or 
He  had  been  sleeping,  and  St.  Joseph — perhaps  he 


174    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

had  taken  John's  gift  of  generosity  rather  than  that 
last  candle  of  her's,  for  the  petition  she  had  made  on 
that  18th  of  March  in  the  Sardinia  St.  Chapel  had 
not  been  answered. 

Presently  she  looked  up  into  his  eyes. 

"  You  mustn't  blame  yourself,  John,"  she  said 
gently.     "  It  is  I  who  deserve  all  the  blame." 

"  Why.?  "  he  said—"  why?  " 

"  Because — not  for  the  reason  you  said — ^but  for 
something  else,  this  is  all  impossible.  I  know  it  is 
the  most  wonderful  thing  that  will  ever  be  in  my 
life.  I  know  that.  I'm  sure  of  it.  But  something 
has  happened  since  I  saw  you  last,  which  makes  it 
impossible  for  us  to  see  each  other  again." 

"  Your  people  have  found  out?    They  forbid  it?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

*'  No — no — it's  not  that.  They  know  nothing.  I 
must  go  back  in  order  to  explain  it  to  you." 

Still  holding  his  hand,  she  slipped  into  a  chair, 
motioning  him  to  draw  up  another  beside  her, 

"  You  remember  when  we  first  met?  " 

He  nodded. 

"  Did  you  ever  wonder  why  I  was  praying  to  St. 
Joseph  ?  " 

"  Wonder?  "  he  echoed.  "  I've  thought  of  a  thou- 
sand different  things." 

"  I  don't  suppose  you've  thought  of  the  right 
one,"  said  Jill.  "My  father's  not  rich,  you  know; 
not  so  rich  as  you  might  expect  from  his  position 
and  the  house  where  we  live.  At  one  time  we  were 
better  off,  but  they  still  try  to  live  on  at  Prince  of 
Wales'  Terrace,  though  they  can't  really  afford  it. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     175 

Father  lost  money  in  speculation,  and,  before  that, 
he  had  put  down  Ronald's  name  for  Eton.  Then  the 
chances  of  his  ever  going  there  seemed  to  dwindle 
to  nothing.  It  was  when  it  almost  seemed  as  if  we 
must  leave  the  house  in  Kensington,  that  a  friend  of 
father's  asked  me  to  marry  him.  He  was  over  forty 
— some  years  older  than  me  and  I " 

*'  You  refused  him,  of  course,"  said  John  quickly. 
At  twenty-six,  forty  years  can  seem  the  millennium 
when  they  stand  in  your  way. 

"  Yes — I — I  refused.  But  he  did  not  take  my  re- 
fusal. He  asked  me  to  think  about  it;  that  he 
would  wait — would  even  wait  a  year.  Then,  I  be- 
lieve, he  must  have  said  something  to  father,  besides 
telling  him  that  I  had  refused,  because  father  talked 
for  a  long  while  to  me  afterwards  and  mother,  too. 
They  showed  me  as  plainly  as  they  could,  though, 
from  their  point  of  view  alone,  what  an  excellent 
match  it  would  be.  Father  told  me  exactly  what  his 
financial  position  was — a  thing  he  had  never  done 
before.  I  had  always  thought  him  to  be  quite 
rich.  Then,  at  the  end,  he  said  he  had  invested  in 
some  speculation  which  he  believed  was  going  to 
set  him  quite  right  again,  enable  us  to  stay  on  in 
Kensington  and  make  it  quite  possible  for  Ronald 
to  go  to  Eton.  But  that  if  this  failed,  as  he  did  not 
believe  it  would,  then  he  hoped  that  I  would  recon- 
sider my  refusal  to  his  friend.  I  say  he  hoped;  but 
he  did  not  put  it  in  that  way.  He  showed  me  that 
it  would  be  my  duty — that  I  should  be  spoiling 
Ronald's  chances  and  mother's  life  and  his,  if  I  did 
not  accept." 


176    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

She  paused.  She  waited  for  John  to  say  some- 
thing; but  he  sat  there  beside  her  with  his  lips  set 
tight  and  his  eyes  unmoving. 

"  It  was  on  the  18th  of  March,  he  told  me  that," 
she  continued — "  the  day  that  I  went  to  pray  to  St. 
Joseph  that  his  speculation  might  not  fail — the  day 
I  met  you.  Then — only  the  day  before  yesterday 
— they  told  me.  The  prayer  had  been  no  good.  I 
always  said  poor  St.  Joseph  was  no  good  to  me." 

"  He's  lost  his  money  ?  "  said  John  hoarsely.  He 
let  her  hand  fall  and  moved  away. 

"  Yes.     I — I've  got  to  accept." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   CITY   OP   BEAUTIFUL   NONSENSE 

"  Then  you'll  never  know  my  people  in  Venice," 
said  John  presently.  He  had  suddenly  remembered 
that  there  was  nothing  to  tell  the  little  old  white- 
haired  lady  now.  To  all  the  thousand  questions 
which  she  would  whisper  into  his  ears,  only  evasive 
answers  could  be  given  her. 

"  I  told  my  mother  about  you,"  he  went  on  slowly. 
**  I  told  her  how  we  met.  I  told  her  that  you  were 
praying  to  St.  Joseph  and  she's  been  wondering 
ever  since — like  me  " — the  emotion  rose  in  his  throat 
— "  she's  been  wondering  what  you  could  have  had  to 
ask." 

He  came  back  to  the  arm-chair — the  arm-chair 
in  which  he  did  his  work — and  quietly  sat  down. 
Then,  as  quietly,  as  naturally  as  if  she  had  done  it 
a  thousand  times  before,  Jill  seated  herself  on  the 
floor  at  his  feet  and  his  arm  wound  gently  round 
her  neck. 

"  Did  your  mother  know  we  met  again  ?  "  she  asked 
presently. 

"  Yes — I  told  her  about  the  first  time  in  Kensing- 
ton Gardens.  I  haven't  told  her  any  more.  I  dared 
not." 

"  Dared  not  ?  "     She  looked  up  quickly. 

"  No — ^it's  the  hope  of  her  life  to  see  me  happy 
1T7 


178     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

— to  see  me  married.  They  think  I  make  more  money 
than  I  do,  because  I  won't  take  anything  from  them. 
They  believe  I'm  in  a  position  to  marry  and,  in  nearly 
every  letter  she  writes,  she  makes  some  quaint  sort 
of  allusion  to  it.  I  believe  already  her  mind  is  set 
on  you.  She's  so  awfully  cute.  She  reads  every 
single  word  between  the  lines,  and  sometimes  sees 
more  what  has  been  in  my  mind  when  I  wrote  to 
her,  than  I  even  did  myself." 

Jill's  interest  wakened.  Suddenly  this  old  lady, 
far  away  in  Venice,  began  to  live  for  her. 

"  What  is  she  like  ?  "  she  asked — "  Describe  her. 
You've  never  told  me  what  she's  like." 

Diffidently,  John  began.  At  first  it  seemed  wasting 
their  last  moments  together  to  be  talking  of  some- 
one else;  but,  word  by  word,  he  became  more  inter- 
ested, more  absorbed.  It  was  entering  Jill  into  his 
life,  making  her  a  greater  part  of  it  than  she  would 
have  been  had  she  gone  away  knowing  nothing  more 
of  him  than  these  rooms  in  Fetter  Lane.  At  last 
the  little  old  white-haired  lady,  with  those  pathetic- 
ally powerless  hands  of  hers,  was  there,  alive,  in 
the  room  with  them. 

Jill  looked  up  at  him  with  such  eyes  as  con- 
cealed their  tears. 

"  She  means  a  lot  to  you,"  she  said  gently. 

"  Yes — she  means  a  great  deal." 

"  And  yet,  do  you  know,  from  your  description  of 
her,  I  seemed  more  to  gather  how  much  you  meant 
to  her.     She  lives  in  you." 

"  I  know  she  does." 

"And  your  father.?     Thomas  Grey — of  the  port 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    179 

of  Venice  ?  "  She  tried  to  smile  at  the  remembrance 
which  that  brought. 

"  Yes — he  lives  in  me,  too.  They  both  of  them 
do.  He,  for  the  work  I  shall  do,  carrying  on  where 
he  left  off;  she,  for  the  woman  I  shall  love  and  the 
children  I  know  she  prays  I  may  have  before  she 
dies.  That  is  the  essence  of  true  fatherhood  and 
true  motherhood.  They  are  perfectly  content  to  die 
when  they  are  once  assured  that  their  work  and 
their  love  is  going  on  living  in  their  child." 

She  thought  of  it  all.  She  tried  in  one  grasp 
of  her  mind  to  hold  all  that  that  meant,  but  could 
only  find  herself  wondering  if  the  little  old  white- 
haired  lady  would  be  disappointed  in  her,  would 
disapprove  of  the  duty  she  was  about  to  fulfil,  if 
she  knew. 

After  a  long  pause,  she  asked  to  be  told  where 
they  lived;  to  be  told  all — everything  about  them; 
and  in  a  mood  of  inspiration,  John  wove  her  a 
romance. 

"  You've  got  to  see  Venice,"  he  began,  "  you've 
got  to  see  a  city  of  slender  towers  and  white  domes, 
sleeping  in  the  water  like  a  mass  of  water  lilies. 
You've  got  to  see  dark  water-ways,  mysterious 
threads  of  shadow,  binding  all  these  flowers  of  stone 
together.  You've  got  to  hear  the  silence  in  which 
the  whispers  of  lovers  of  a  thousand  years  ago, 
and  the  cries  of  men,  betrayed,  all  breathe  and  echo 
in  every  bush.  These  are  the  only  noises  in  Venice 
— these  and  the  pla^h  of  the  gondolier's  oar  or  his 
call — '  Ohe ! '  as  he  rounds  a  sudden  corner.  You've 
got  to  see  it  all  in  the  night — at  night,  when  the 


180    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

great  white  lily  flowers  are  blackened  In  shadow,  and 
the  darkened  water-ways  are  lost  in  an  impenetrable 
depth  of  gloom.  You've  got  to  hear  the  stealthy 
creeping  of  a  gondola  and  the  lapping  of  the  water 
against  the  slimy  stones  as  it  hurries  by.  In  every 
little  burning  light  that  flickers  in  a  barred  window 
up  above,  you  must  be  able  to  see  plotters  at  work, 
conspirators  planning  deeds  of  evil  or  a  lover  in  his 
mistress'  arms.  You've  got  to  see  magic,  mystery, 
tragedy,  and  romance,  all  compassed  by  grey  stone 
and  green  water,  to  know  the  sort  of  place  where 
my  mother  and  father  live,  to  know  the  place  where 
I  should  have  taken  you,  if — if  things  had  been 
diff^erent." 

"  Should  we  have  gone  there  together.''  "  she  said 
in  a  breath. 

"  Y  es — I've  always  sort  of  dreamed,  when  I've 
thought  of  the  woman  with  God's  good  gift  of  un- 
derstanding, I've  always  sort  of  dreamed  of  what  we 
should  do  together  there." 

She  looked  up  into  his  face.  The  picture  of  it 
all  was  there  in  his  eyes.  She  saw  it  as  well.  She 
saw  the  vision  of  all  she  was  losing  and,  as  you  play 
with  a  memory  that  hurts,  as  a  mother  handles  the 
tiny  faded  shoe  of  the  baby  she  has  lost,  she  wanted 
to  see  more  of  it. 

"  Should  we  have  gone  there  together.?  "  she  whis- 
pered. 

He  smiled  down  at  her — ^mock  bravery — a  smile 
that  helped  him  bear  the  pain. 

"  Yes, — every  year — as  long  as  they  lived  and 
every  year  afterwards,  if  you  wished.     Every  morn- 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     181 

ing,  we'd  have  got  up  early — you  know  those  early 
mornings  when  the  sun's  white  and  all  the  shadows 
are  sort  of  misty  and  the  water  looks  cleaner  and 
fresher  than  at  any  other  time  because  the  dew  has 
purged  it.  We'd  have  got  up  early  and  come  down- 
stairs and  outside  in  the  little  Rio,  the  gondolier 
would  be  blowing  on  his  fingers,  waiting  for  us. 
They  can  be  cold  those  early  mornings  in  Venice. 
Then  we'd  have  gone  to  the  Giudecca,  where  all  the 
ships  lie  basking  in  the  sun — all  the  ships  that  have 
come  from  Trieste,  from  Greece,  from  the  mysterious 
East,  up  through  the  Adriatic,  threading  their  way 
through  the  patchwork  of  islands,  past  Fort  San 
Nicolo  and  Lido  till  they  reach  the  Giudecca  Canal. 
They  lie  there  in  the  sun  in  the  early  mornings  like 
huge,  big  water-spiders,  and  up  from  all  the  cabins 
you'll  see  a  httle  curl  of  pale  blue  smoke  where  the 
sailors  are  cooking  their  breakfasts." 

"  And  how  early  will  that  be .''  "  asked  Jill  in  a 
whisper. 

"  Oh — six  o'clock,  perhaps." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  awfully  sleepy.  I  never  wake  up 
till  eight  o'clock  and  even  then  it's  not  properly 
waking  up." 

"  Well,  then,  you'll  put  your  head  on  my  shoulder 
and  you'll  go  to  sleep.  It's  a  wonderful  place  to 
sleep  in,  is  a  gondola.  We'll  go  away  down  towards 
Lido  and  you  can  go  to  sleep." 

"  But  the  gondolier.?  " 

"  Oh  " — he  laughed  gently.  "  The  hood's  up — ^he 
stands  behind  the  hood.  He  can't  see.  And  if  he 
can,  what  does  that  matter.?     He  understands.     A 


182    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

gondolier  is  not  a  London  cabby.  He  plies  that  oar 
of  his  mechanically.  He's  probably  dreaming,  too, 
miles  away  from  us.  There  are  some  places  in  the 
world  where  it  is  natural  for  a  man  to  love  a  woman, 
where  it  isn't  a  spectacle,  as  it  is  here,  exciting  sordid 
curiosity,  and  Venice  is  one  of  them.  Well,  then, 
you'll  go  to  sleep,  with  your  head  on  my  shoulder. 
And  when  we're  coming  back  again,  I  shall  wake 
you  up — how  shall  I  wake  you?  " 

He  leant  over  her.  Her  eyes  were  in  Venice  al- 
ready. Her  head  was  on  his  shoulder.  She  was 
asleep.  How  should  he  wake  her.''  He  bent  still 
lower,  till  his  face  touched  hers. 

"  I  shall  kiss  you,"  he  whispered — "  I  shall  kiss 
your  eyes,  and  they'll  open."  And  he  kissed  her 
eyes — and  they  qjosed. 

"  We'll  go  back  to  breakfast,  then,"  he  went  on, 
scarcely  noticing  how  subtly  the  tense  had  changed 
since  he  had  begun.  "  What  do  you  think  you'd 
like  for  breakfast?  " 

"  Oh — anything — it  doesn't  matter  much  what  one 
eats,  does  it?  " 

"  Then  we'll  eat  anything,"  he  smiled — "  whatever 
they  give  us.  But  we  shall  be  hungry,  you  know. 
We  shall  be  awfully  hungry." 

"  Well,"  said  Jill  under  her  breath — "  I'm  sure 
they'll  give  us  enough.     And  what  do  we  do  then?" 

"After  breakfast?" 

«  Yes." 

"Well — I  finish  just  one  moment  before  y^ou  do, 
and  then  I  get  up,  pretending  that  I'm  going  to  the 
window." 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     183 

She  looked  up  surprised. 

"  Pretending  ?    What  for  ?  " 

"  Because  I  want  to  get  behind  your  chair." 

"But  why.?" 

**  Because  I  want  to  put  my  arms  round  your 
neck  and  kiss  you  again." 

He  showed  her  how.  He  showed  her  what  he 
meant.  She  took  a  deep  breath,  and  closed  her  eyes 
once  more. 

"When,  without  complaint,  you  take  whatever  is 
given  you,  that's  the  only  grace  for  such  a  meal  as 
that.  Well — when  we've  said  grace — then  out  we 
go  again." 

"In  the  garden?" 

"Yes — to  the  Palazzo  Capello  in  the  Rio 
Marin." 

"  That's  where  your  people  live.?  " 

*'  Yes.  Well,  perhaps,  we  take  them  out,  or  we 
go  and  sit  in  the  garden.  I  expect  father  will  want 
us  to  go  and  sit  in  the  garden  and  see  the  things 
he's  planted;  and  mother  of  course'll  consent, 
though  she'll  be  longing  to  go  out  to  the  Piazza 
San  Marco  and  look  at  the  lace  in  the  shops  under 
the  Arcade." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  go  out  with  her "  said  Jill. 

*'  If  you  go,  I  go,"  said  John. 

She  laughed,  and  forced  him  to  a  compromise. 
He  would  stay  in  the  garden  for  half  an  hour;  it 
need  not  be  more. 

"  There  might  be  things  we  wanted  to  buy  in  the 
shops,"  she  said — "  shops  where  you  might  not  be 
allowed  to  come."     So  he  could  understand  that  it 


184    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

ought  to  be  half  an  hour.  But  it  must  not  be 
more. 

"  And  then — ^what  then  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  then,  directly  after  lunch,  we'd  take  a 
gondola  once  more  and  set  off  for  Murano." 

"  Directly  after.?  Wouldn't  it  be  cruel  to  leave 
them  so  soon?  If  we  only  go  for  a  month  every 
year,  wouldn't  it  be  cruel.?  " 

This  is  where  a  man  is  selfish.  This  is  where  a 
woman  is  kind.  It  was  natural  enough,  but  he  had 
not  thought  so  much  of  them. 

He  consented  that  they  should  stay  till  tea-time 
was  over — tea  in  those  little,  wee  cups  without  any 
handles,  which  the  little  old  white-haired  lady  could 
just  manage  to  grasp  in  her  twisted  hands,  and  ac- 
cordingly, loved  so  much  because  they  did  not  jeer 
at  her  powerlessness  as  did  the  many  things  which 
she  had  once  been  able  to  hold. 

"  You  didn't  want  not  to  come  out  with  me — did 
you  ?  "  he  asked  when  the  tea-time  picture  had  passed 
before  his  eyes. 

"  Not — not  want — ^but  you'd  get  tired,  perhaps, 
if  you  saw  too  much  of  me  alone." 

"Get  tired!" 

Three  score  years  and  ten  were  the  utmost  that  a 
man  might  hope  for  in  this  life.    Get  tired ! 

Well,  then,  tea  was  over  at  last.  The  light  of  a 
pearl  was  creeping  into  the  sky.  That  was  the 
most  wonderful  time  of  all  to  cross  the  Lagoon  to 
Murano. 

"  Then  it  was  much  better  we  stayed  to  tea,"  she 
whispered. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     185 

Much  better,  since  the  shadows  were  deepening 
under  the  arches,  and  he  could  take  her  head  in  his 
hands  and  kiss  her — as  he  kissed  her  then — ^without 
being  seen.  Oh — it  was  much  better  that  they  had 
stayed  to  tea. 

Now  they  had  started,  past  the  Chiesa  San  Gia- 
cono  into  the  Grand  Canal,  down  the  broad  water- 
way, past  the  Ca'  d'Oro,  which  the  Contarini  built, 
to  the  narrow  Rio  di  Felice ;  then  out  into  the  Sacca 
della  Miscricordia,  and  there,  before  them,  the  broad 
stretch  of  the  silent  Lagoon — a  lake  of  opal  water 
that  never  ended,  but  as  silently  became  the  sky, 
with  no  line  of  light  or  shade  to  mark  the  alchemy 
of  change. 

**  And  across  this,"  said  John, — "  with  their  hour 
glasses  spilling  out  the  sand,  come  the  gondolas  with 
the  dead,  to  the  cemetery  that  lies  in  the  water  in  the 
midst  of  the  Lagoon.  They  churn  up  the  water 
with  the  speed  they  go,  and  if  you  ask  a  gondolier 
why  they  go  so  fast,  he  will  tell  you  it  is  because 
the  dead  cannot  pay  for  that  last  journey  of  theirs. 
That  is  their  humour  in  the  city  they  call  La  citta 
del  riso  sangue.     But  we  shall  creep   through  the 

water — we  can  pay — at  least "  he  thought  of 

his  two  quarters'  rent — "  I  suppose  we  can.  We 
shall  steer  through  the  water  like  the  shadow  of  a 

little   cloud   gliding   across   the   sea.      Oh ^"  he 

pressed  his  hands  to  his  eyes — "  but  it  would  be 
wonderful  there  with  you!  And  at  night,  when 
the  whole  city  is  full  of  darkness — strange,  silent, 
mysterious  darkness — where  every  lighted  taper  that 
burns  and  every  lamp  that  is  lit  seems  to  illuminate 


186     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

a  deed  of  mystery,  we  would  go  out  into  the  Grand 
Canal,  when  we  had  said  good-night  to  those  dear 
old  people  of  mine  and  we'd  listen  to  them  singing — 
and,  oh, — they  sing  so  badly,  but  it  sounds  so  won- 
derful there.  At  last — one  by  one,  the  lights  would 
begin  to  flicker  out.  The  windows  that  were  alive 
and  awake  would  close  their  eyes  and  hide  in  the 
mysterious  darkness ;  a  huge  white  lamp  of  a  moou 
would  glide  up  out  of  the  breast  of  the  Adriatic,  and 
then " 

"  Then  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Then  we  should  turn  back  to  the  little  room 
amongst  all  those  other  little  rooms  in  the  great 
darkness — the  gondolier  would  row  home,  and  I 
should  be  left  alone  with  my  arms  tight  round  you 
and  my  head  resting  on  the  gentlest  place  in  the 
world." 

He  lifted  his  hands  above  his  head — he  laughed 
bitterly  with  the  unreality  of  it  all. 

*'What  beautiful  nonsense  all  this   is,"  said  he. 

She  looked  up  with  the  tears  burning  in  her 
eyes.  She  looked  up  and  her  glance  fell  upon  a 
picture  that  his  father  had  painted  and  given  him 
— a  picture  of  the  Rialto  lifting  with  its  white  arches 
over  the  green  water.  She  pointed  to  it.  He  fol- 
lowed with  his  eyes  the  white  line  of  her  finger. 

"  Then  that,"  said  Jill,  and  her  voice  quivered — 
**  that's  the  City — the  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense." 


BOOK  n 

THE    TUNNEL 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE   HEART   OF   THE   SHADOW 

Ideai^s  in  the  human  being  are  as  the  flight  of  a 
swallow,  now  high,  now  sinking  to  earth,  borne  up- 
wards by  the  bright  light  of  air,  pressed  downwards 
by  the  lowering  of  a  heavy  sky. 

When  jTohn  had  said  his  last  good-bye  to  Jill, 
when  it  seemed  to  both  of  them  that  the  Romance 
was  finished — ^when  the  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense 
had  just  been  seen  upon  the  horizon,  like  a  land 
of  promise  viewed  from  a  height  of  Pisgah,  and  then 
faded  into  the  mist  of  impossible  things,  John  turned 
back  to  those  rooms  in  Fetter  Lane,  with  his  ideal 
hugging  close  to  earth  and  all  the  loneliness  of  life 
stretching  out  monotonously  before  him. 

But  not  until  he  had  seen  the  empty  tea-cups  in 
their  position  upon  the  table  just  as  they  had  left 
them,  the  little  piece  of  bread  and  butter  she  had 
half  eaten,  upon  her  plate;  not  until  he  had  seen 
the  empty  chairs  standing  closely  together  as  though 
repeating  in  whispers  all  the  story  of  the  City  of 
Beautiful  Nonsense  which  he  had  told  her,  did  he 
come  actually  to  realise  that  he  had  lost  her — that 
he  was  alone. 

The  minutes  ticked  wearily  by  as  he  sat  there, 
staring  at  it  all  as  though  it  were  an  empty  stage 
at  the  end  of  a  play,  which  the  players  had  de- 
serted. 

189 


190    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

At  the  sound  of  footsteps  mounting  the  stairs, 
he  looked  up.  Then,  as  a  knock  fell  upon  the  door, 
he  started  to  his  feet.  She  had  come  back!  She 
could  bear  the  parting  no  more  than  he !  They  were 
never  to  be  parted!  This  loneliness  was  too  unen- 
durable, too  awful  to  bear.  In  hurried  strides,  he 
reached  the  door  and  flung  it  open. 

There  stood  the  little  bailiff — the  great  Mr.  Ches- 
terton— with  a  smile  spreading  agreeably  over  his 
solemn  face.  In  those  two  hours  of  his  absence,  he 
had  thought  of  three  clever  things — three!  which, 
having  just  invented,  he  found  to  be  in  every  way 
as  good  as  that  famous  simile  of  Time  and  Tide. 
He  was  longing  to  say  them. 

But  when  he  saw  the  look  on  John's  face,  he 
stopped. 

"  Yer  not  expecting  another  young  lady  are  yer?  " 
he  asked. 

John  turned  back  despairingly  into  the  room, 
making  way  for  him  to  enter.  He  offered  no  reply 
to  the  little  man's  remark. 

Mr.  Chesterton  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"  'Ave  you  'ad  a  scrap.''  "  he  asked  sympathetic- 
ally. 

Now,  sympathy  from  a  bailiff,  may  be  a  very 
beautiful  thing,  but  when  the  mind  of  a  man  is 
floundering  in  the  nethermost  pit,  he  has  no  need 
of  it.  John  turned  on  him,  his  face  changed,  his 
whole  expression  altered. 

"  You've  come  here  to  do  your  work,  haven't 
you?"  he  said  thickly — "you've  come  here  to  take 
possession  of  any  confounded  thing  you  like.     Well 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     191 

— take  it !  Take  the  whole  blessed  show !  I  don't 
want  to  see  a  single  thing  in  this  room  again."  He 
strode  to  the  door.  The  little  man  stood  staring 
at  him  amazed.     "  You  can  rip  ever}'  damned  thing 

off  the  walls "  he  went  on  wildly.     "  Make  up 

your  fifteen  pounds  whatever  you  do.  Don't  stint 
yourself!  For  God's  sake  don't  stint  yourself! — 
Take  every  damned  thing ! " 

The  door  slammed.     He  was  gone. 

It  was  half-past  six.  Payne  and  Welcome  were 
•just  beginning  to  put  up  their  shutters.  John  hur- 
ried into  the  side  entrance  and  threw  his  ticket  down 
on  the  counter. 

"  I  want  that  seventeen  pounds,"  he  said,  and  the 
ten-shilling-piece  twisted  a  giddy  dance  on  the 
counter  by  the  side  of  the  ticket,  then  sank  down 
with  a  gentle  ringing  sound. 

The  pawnbroker  looked  at  him  in  amazement, 
then  went  to  a  little  pigeon-hole  and  produced  the 
packet  of  money.     John  snatched  it  up  and  went. 

They  stared  after  him;  then  stared  at  one  an- 
other. 

"  He  ain't  so  far  off  it  this  time,"  said  one. 

"  Next  thing  'e'U  do,"  said  the  high  priest—"  'e'll 
cut  'is  throat  in  a  barber's  shop." 

But  supremely  unconscious  of  all  these  gentle  re- 
marks, John  was  hurrying  on  through  the  streets, 
scarcely  conscious  of  where  he  was  going,  or  why 
he  had  redeemed  the  money  that  was  now  gripped 
fiercely  in  his  hand. 

For  what  did  anything  matter  now?  There  must 
be  some  colour  of  reality  about  the  ideal,  some  red 


192    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

lamp  burning  before  an  altar  to  light  up  that  utter 
darkness  into  which  the  mind  inevitably  falls,  blindly 
and  stumblingly,  without  such  actual  guiding  flame 
as  this.  Where  would  be  the  wonderful  reality  of 
the  Host  in  the  Tabernacle,  if  it  was  not  for  the 
dim  red  lamp  that  burnt  silently  by  day  and  night 
before  the  altar?  Who  could  pray,  who  could  be- 
lieve in  utter  darkness? 

And  in  utter  darkness  Jill  had  surely  left  him  now. 
It  might  have  been  that  they  could  not  have  married 
for  some  years ;  it  might  have  been  that  they  could 
never  have  married  at  all ;  but  to  see  her  no  more — 
never  to  feel  again  the  touch  of  understanding  in  her 
hands,  the  look  of  understanding  in  her  eyes — that 
was  the  gale  of  the  wind  which  had  obliterated  the 
red  light  of  the  lamp  that  burnt  before  his  altar. 
And  now — he  was  in  darkness.  Neither  could  he 
pray,  nor  believe. 

For  an  hour,  he  wandered  through  the  streets, 
then,  as  a  clock  struck  the  half-hour  after  seven,  he 
turned  into  a  fashionable  restaurant  and  took  a  table 
in  a  comer  alone. 

A  waiter  came  with  the  menu  of  the  dinners — 
five  shillings,  seven  and  six,  ten  shillings.  He  chose 
the  last  as  it  was  handed  to  him.  The  mere  action 
of  spending  money  needlessly  seemed  a  part  of  the 
expression  of  that  bitterness  which  was  tainting  all 
his  thoughts. 

The  waiter  handed  hira  the  wine  list  with  a  bow. 

John  shook  his  head. 

"  Water,"  he  said. 

This   was  not  his  way  of  seeking  oblivion.     In 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    19a 

even  the  blackest  moments  of  his  mind,  he  must  have 
his  senses  wide-eyed  and  awake.  The  man  who  drinks 
to  forget,  forgets  Remorse  as  well.  Remorse  is  a 
thing  to  be  learnt  of,  not  to  drown. 

This,  if  John  had  known  it,  was  what  his  father 
meant  by  wishing  for  the  sorrow  in  his  life.  By  such 
moments  as  these,  he  was  to  come  to  learn  the  value 
of  optimism ;  by  such  moments  as  these,  he  was  to 
come  to  know,  not  that  there  is  too  much  sadness  in 
life  already,  but  that  there  is  too  little  of  the  con- 
trast of  real  happiness  to  appreciate  it. 

All  through  the  meal,  sending  away  one  course 
after  another  unfinished,  he  gave  way  voluntarily  to 
the  passion  of  bitterness,  made  no  eflPort  to  steady 
the  balance  of  his  mind. 

In  a  balcony,  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  a  band 
of  string  instruments  played  the  worst  of  meanings 
into  bad  music — the  music  one  hears  without  lis- 
tening to.  It  was  not  long  in  finding  its  way  into 
jJohn's  mind,  not  long  in  exerting  its  influence  upon 
his  mood.  One  by  one,  crowding  quickly  upon  each 
other,  he  permitted  its  suggestions  to  take  a  hold 
upon  his  thoughts.  What  did  it  matter  how  he 
thought?  What  did  it  matter  how  low  his  ideal 
should  fall?  He  could  see  nothing  beyond  the  mo- 
ment, nothing  further  than  that  he  was  alone,  de- 
prived of  the  greatest,  the  highest  hope  with  which 
his  whole  being  had  associated  itself?  What  did 
anything  matter  now  that  he  had  lost  that. 

And  then,  out  of  a  stillness  that  had  fallen  since 
the  last  playing  of  the  band,  the  musicians  began  a 
selection  from  La  Boheme.     He  laid  his  knife  and 


194    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

fork  upon  the  plate.  He  sat  back  in  his  chair  and 
listened. 

Why  did  it  sound  so  different  ?  What  had  changed 
in  it  since  that  night  when  he  had  heard  it  at  the 
Opera?  Now  there  was  sensuality  in  every  note  of 
it.  It  maddened  him.  The  very  passages  that  he 
had  once  found  beautiful — found  wonderful  as  he 
had  listened  to  them  with  Jill — ^became  charged  with 
the  vilest  imaginations.  Thoughts,  the  impurest, 
surged  into  his  mind.  The  wildest  and  most  incom- 
prehensible desire  beat  in  his  brain.  Was  it  the 
players?  Was  it  their  rendering  of  the  music,  or 
was  it  himself? 

He  called  the  waiter,  ordered  his  bill,  paid — think- 
ing no  loss  in  it — out  of  the  seventeen  pounds  he 
had  redeemed,  and  strode  out  of  the  place  into  the 
street. 

There  was  nowhere  to  go,  no  friend  whom  he  cared 
at  such  a  moment  to  see.  At  last,  without  con- 
sciously determining  upon  it,  he  found  himself  mak- 
ing his  way  back  to  Fetter  Lane. 

With  steps  almost  like  those  of  an  old  man,  he 
climbed  up  the  stairs,  passing  the  sandy  cat  without 
notice — not  so  much  as  a  good-evening. 

When  he  opened  the  door  of  his  room,  there  was 
Mr.  Chesterton,  comfortably  ensconced  in  his  arm- 
chair and  only  saving  his  presumptuousness  of  its 
occupation,  by  reading  one  of  John's  books. 

But  Mr.  Chesterton  was  a  man  with  a  certain 
amount  of  humility.  He  rose  to  his  feet  as  John 
entered;  because  there  was  no  doubt  as  to  its  being 
John's  particular  arm-chair.     It  was  the  only  arm- 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     195 

chair  in  the  room.  The  little  bailiff  had  observed 
that.  In  fact,  for  that  very  reason,  he  had  consid- 
erately omitted  it  in  the  making  of  his  inventory. 

"  I — I  just  been  reading  one  of  your  books,  Mr. 
Grey,"  he  said,  "  an'  if  yer  don't  mind  my  sayin'  so, 
I've  read  many  a  story  what  was  worse.  I  'ave, 
indeed.  I  like  this  story  first  rate.  It's  no  more 
like  a  thing  you'd  hear  of  in  life  than  I'm  like  the 
photograph  my  son  took  of  me  last  week  with  a 
five-shilling  camera.  'Ow  on  earth  you  manage  to 
do  it  is  a  marvel  to  me.  Do  you  get  a  plot  in  yer 
'ead  like  and  just  stick  it  down  just  as  it  comes  to 
yer — what  my  old  woman  calls  when  the  spirit  moves  ? 
*  The  spirit  moves,'  she  says,  and  then  she  goes  out 
and  gets  a  jug  of  beer.  But  that's  only  figurative, 
of  course.  What  I  mean  is,  do  you  go  on  writing 
what's  in  your  'ead,  or  do  you  get  bits  of  it  out  of 
other  books.?  'He  threw  his  arms  around  her  neck 
and  held  her  in  a  passionate  embrace.'  I've  read  that 
in  'caps  of  books.  I  suppose  they  get  it  from  each 
other." 

"  Did  you  find  it  in  mine  ?  "  asked  John. 

"Well,  no — I  can't  say  as  I  'ave  yet.  But  then, 
they've  only  just  been  introduced.  I  expect  you'll 
'ave  to  come  to  it  sooner  or  later.     They  all  do." 

"  That's  quite  right,"  said  John — "  we  all  do. 
There's  something  inevitable  about  it.  Have  you 
had  a  meal  yet  ?  " 

"  No — ^but  I've  got  a  little  something  here  In  a 
basket.     I'll  eat  it  on  the  landing  if  you  like." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  John — "  eat  it  here.  It  makes  no 
difference  to  me." 


196    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

So  Mr.  Chesterton  pulled  out  the  basket  with  the 
little  something  inside.  Two  cold  sausages  and 
some  bread  and  butter  were  the  extent  of  his  meal 
which  he  ate  with  evident  relish,  and  table  manners 
that,  perhaps,  a  fastidious  person  might  have  ob- 
jected to.  You  could,  for  example,  hear  him  eating. 
Sometimes  he  exclaimed  how  excellent  were  sausages 
when  they  were  cold.  He  went  so  far  as  to  say  he 
loved  them.  He  also  expanded  on  the  way  his  old 
woman  cooked  tripe ;  but  when  he  talked  about  the 
brains  of  certain  animals  being  cheap  and  at  the 
same  time  a  great  delicacy,  John  found  that  his 
hands  wanted  washing  and  went  into  the  other  room. 

"  They've  had  a  tiff,"  said  the  little  man  as  he 
bit  into  the  second  sausage — "  they've  'ad  a  tiff. 
He's  that  down  in  the  mouth,  there's  nothin'  I  can 
say  as'U  buck  him  up.  Why,  if  I  talk  about  sheep's 
brains  to  my  old  woman,  she  gets  as  chirpy  as  a 
cock-sparrer." 

When  John  came  back,  Mr.  Chesterton  had  fin- 
ished; the  basket  was  put  away  and  he  was  doing 
things  with  his  teeth  and  a  bent  pin  in  a  far  comer 
of  the  room. 

"  'Ave  yer  got  a  box  of  draughts,  Mr.  Grey?"  he 
asked,  when  he  was  at  liberty.  John  nodded  his 
head. 

"  Then  come  along,"  said  the  little  man — "  let's 
have  a  game !  " 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

AMBER 

But  there  is  no  oblivion  to  be  found  in  a  game  of 
draughts.  For  some  days,  John  bore  with  the  so- 
ciety of  the  amiable  Mr.  Chesterton.  He  listened  to 
his  stories  of  visits  that  he  had  paid  in  other  estab- 
lishments, where  they  had  prevailed  upon  him  to  do 
odd  jobs  about  the  house,  even  to  the  cleaning  of 
the  knives  and  boots.  The  only  time  when  he  seemed 
to  have  resolutely  refused  to  do  anything,  was  on 
the  occasion  he  had  spent  seven  days  with  the  lady 
journalist  who  had  a  beard  and  a  fair  tidy 
moustache. 

"  I  wouldn't  even  have  shaved  her  if  she'd  asked 
me  to,"  he  said. 

This  sort  of  thing  may  be  amusing;  but  it  needs 
the  time,  it  needs  the  place.  In  those  rooms  of 
his,  where  only  a  few  days  before,  Jill  had  been 
sitting — at  that  period  of  his  life  when  hope  was 
lowest  and  despair  triumphant,  John  found  no 
amusement  in  it  at  all. 

He  wanted  his  oblivion.  His  whole  desire  was  to 
forget.  The  life  that  had  held  all  promise  for  him, 
was  gone — irrevocably  broken.  He  sought  for  that, 
which  would,  by  contrast,  close  the  memory  of  it,  as 
you  shut  a  book  that  is  read.  It  was  not  to  be 
done  by  playing  draughts  with  Mr.  Chesterton.     It 

197 


198     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

was  not  to  be  done  in  the  ways  that  the  crowd  of 
men  will  choose.  He  had  attempted  that — found  it 
impossible  and  flung  it  aside. 

It  was  then  that  he  thought  of  Amber.  She  had 
had  a  rightful  place  once,  a  place  that  had  ac- 
corded with  his  ideas  of  the  cleanliness  of  existence. 
Only  that  he  had  met  Jill — only  that  he  had  loved — 
only  that  he  had  found  the  expression  of  his  ideal 
in  her,  Amber  would  still  have  been  there.  And 
now — now  that  he  had  lost  everything — why  not  re- 
turn? It  was  the  most  human  thing  in  the  world. 
Life  was  not  possible  of  such  ideals. 

So  he  argued,  the  darkness  slowly  diminishing — 
the  light  of  some  reason  creeping  again  into  his 
mind.  But  the  bitterness  was  still  there.  He  still 
did  not  care  and,  as  yet,  his  mind  did  not  even  rebel 
against  such  callousness. 

One  evening,  then,  he  left  Mr.  Chesterton  finishing 
the  reading  of  his  book.  He  hailed  the  first  hansom 
he  saw  and,  screwing  himself  into  the  comer  of  the 
seat,  took  a  deep  breath  of  relief  as  he  drove  away. 

Then  began  the  fear  as  he  drove,  the  fear 
that  he  would  not  find  Amber,  that  since  she  had 
gone  out  of  his  life,  she  would  have  readjusted  her 
mind,  found  other  interests,  or  even  that  she  might 
not  be  there  when  he  arrived.  And  now,  once  his 
destination  was  made,  he  dreaded  the  thought  that 
Circumstance  should  balk  his  desire. 

Jumping  quickly  out  of  the  hansom,  he  paid  his 
fare,  hurried  up  the  steps  and  rattled  the  flap  of  the 
letter-box.  This  was  the  knocker  of  friends.  All 
those  who  used  the  proper  means  were  creditors,  not 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE     199 

answered  until  Inspected  carefull}'^  from  behind  lace 
curtains. 

For  a  few  moments,  his  heart  beat  tentatively. 
There  was  no  sound,  no  light  from  within.  Then 
came  the  quick  tapping  of  high-heels.  He  took  a 
breath.  The  door  opened.  He  saw  her  face  of 
amazement  in  the  darkness. 

"  You !  "  she  exclaimed.  The  door  opened  wider 
to  her  hand.     "  Come  in." 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  stepped  in.  His  manner 
was  strange.  He  knew  it  was  strange;  he  under- 
stood the  look  of  question  In  her  eyes  as  she  stared 
at  him — it  reflected  the  look  In  his  own  mind. 

"  Are  you  alone .''  "  he  asked. 

She  nodded  her  head. 

*'  My  aunt  Is  staying  with  me,"  she  explained, 
**  but  she's  gone  to  bed.  She's  got  my  bedroom. 
The  mater's  gone  to  bed.  I'm  sleeping  on  the  floor 
in  the  drawing-room.  I  was  sitting  there.  Come 
in." 

He  followed  her  into  the  drawing-room.  There 
was  her  bed  upon  the  floor — a  mattress,  sheets  and 
blanket.     That  was  all. 

*'  You're  sleeping  there.''  "  he  said. 

She  said — "  hm  "  with  a  little  jerk  of  the  head, 
In  the  most  natural  way  In  the  world.  If  he  thought 
he  knew  what  It  was  to  be  poor,  he  flattered  himself. 
He  had  been  without  meals,  but  he  had  never  slept 
on  the  floor. 

"  Isn't  It  hard.?  "  he  questioned.  "  Do  jou  go  to 
sleep  at  all.''  " 

She  laughed  gently  under  her  breath. 


200    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Good  heavens,  yes !  I'm  used  to  it.  But  what 
have  you  come  for?  " 

She  sat  down  in  a  heap,  like  a  journeyman  tailor, 
upon  her  bed,  and  gazed  up  at  him.  At  first,  he  did 
not  know  how  to  say  it.     Then  he  blurted  it  out. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  back  again  to  see  me  in  Fet- 
ter Lane." 

She  smiled  with  pride.  Her  mind  reached  for  its 
box  of  bricks.  He  had  sent  her  away  from  Fetter 
Lane.    That  was  all  over — past — done  with. 

"  That's  rather  unexpected — isn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  can't  help  that,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  moment 
of  wildness. 

**  But  after  all  you've  said  ?  " 

**  I  can't  help  what  I've  said.  It  holds  good  no 
longer.     I  take  it  all  back.     It  means  nothing." 

She  knelt  up  quickly  on  her  knees.  Dignity  comes 
often  before  humanity  with  a  woman,  but  pity  will 
always  outride  the  two.  Something  had  happened 
to  him.  He  was  in  trouble.  The  old  appeal  he  had 
once  made  to  her  rose  out  of  the  pity  that  she  felt. 
She  stretched  up  her  hands  to  his  shoulders. 

**  What's  happened.''  "  she  asked — "  tell  me  what's 
happened." 

He  dropped  on  to  the  mattress  on  the  floor.  He 
told  her  everything.  He  told  her  how  far  his  ideals 
had  fallen  in  those  last  few  days.  He  stripped  the 
whole  of  his  mind  for  her  to  lash  if  she  chose;  he 
stripped  it,  like  a  child  undressing  for  a  whipping. 

When  he  had  finished,  she  sat  back  again  in  her 
former  position.     She  stared  into  the  empty  grate. 

**  I  wonder,"  said  she — "  I  wonder  does  the  man 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    201 

exist  who  can  bear  disappointment  without  becoming 
like  that." 

That  was  the  only  lash  that  fell  from  her.  And 
she  did  not  direct  it  upon  him,  but  It  whipped  across 
the  nakedness  of  his  mind  with  a  stinging  blow.  He 
winced  under  It.  It  made  him  long  to  be  that  man. 
Yet  still,  there  was  his  desire ;  still  there  was  the  fear, 
that  circumstance  would  balk  him  of  his  oblivion. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that.?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because,  I  thought  you  would  be  different,"  she 
said. 

*'  I'm  as  human  as  the  rest,"  said  he.  "  I'm  the 
crank,  of  course — but  I'm  a  human  crank.  Will  you 
come  back  to  me  again  ?  " 

She  rose  to  her  knees  again.  She  was  trembling, 
but  she  took  his  hand  In  hers  and  gripped  it  hard  to 
hide  It  from  him. 

"  What  will  you  say  afterwards  ? "  she  asked 
gently.  "  What  will  you  feel?  You'll  be  full  of  re- 
morse. You'll  hate  me.  You'll  hate  yourself.  What 
about  your  ideal  ?  " 

"  I  have  none,"  he  exclaimed  blindly. 

"  I  said  that  once,"  she  whispered — "  and  you  said 
I  was  wrong,  that  I  had  an  Ideal,  that  everybody 
had,  only  they  lost  sight  of  it." 

He  remembered  all  that.  He  remembered  the  rea- 
soning of  his  mind.  He  knew  it  was  true.  He  knew 
it  was  true  even  then. 

*'  Now  you've  lost  sight  of  yours,"  she  continued. 
**  But  you'll  see  It  again,  you'll  realise  It  again  to- 
morrow, and  then — heavens  !  How  you'll  hate  me ! 
How  you'll  hate  yourself." 


202     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

He  stared  at  her.  Were  women  as  good,  as  fine 
as  this?  Was  he  the  only  vile  thing  in  existence 
then  ?  What  would  Jill  think  if  she  could  see  into  the 
pit  of  his  mind  now?  So  low  had  he  fallen  that  he 
thought  it  impossible  to  struggle  upwards ;  so 
low,  that  it  seemed  he  must  touch  the  utmost 
depth  before  he  could  get  the  purchase  to  re- 
gain his  feet.  And  if  he  touched  the  lowest,  he 
might  rise  again,  but  it  would  not  be  so  high  as 
before. 

Amber  watched  all  the  thoughts  in  his  face.  She 
had  done  her  utmost.  She  could  not  do  more.  If  he 
did  not  fight  it  out  from  this,  then,  what  must  be, 
must  be. 

Yet  one  more  thing  she  could  do.  If  she  spoke  of 
Venice.  But  why  should  she  say  it?  It  was  his  bat- 
tle, not  hers.  She  had  given  him  every  weapon  to 
wage  it  but  this.  Why  should  she  say  it?  The  bat- 
tle was  against  herself.  Yet  she  answered  to  the  best. 
There  was  her  ideal  as  well,  however  unconscious  it 
may  have  been. 

"  When  are  you  going  to  Venice  ? "  she  asked 
hoarsely. 

He  told  her  how  he  had  spent  some  of  the  money 
— more  than  a  pound  of  it  was  gone. 

She  pulled  out  her  purse,  quickly,  fiercely,  fever- 
ishly. 

"  Then  won't  you  be  able  to  go  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  for  a  while." 

"  Won't  your  mother  be  disappointed, — the  lit- 
tle old  white-haired  lady?  " 

He  tried  to  beat  back  the  emotion  in  his  throat, 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    203 

then  felt  something  cold  and  hard  in  his  hand.  He 
looked  down.     It  was  a  sovereign. 

"  You  must  take  that,"  she  said  breathlessly. 
*'  Pay  it  back  some  other  time  and  go — go  to  Venice 
to-morrow." 

John  looked  full  In  her  eyes. 

"  And  you  called  yourself  the  fly  in  the  amber," 
he  said.  Then  he  tightened  her  fingers  round  the 
coin — kissed  them  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"  I'll  go  to  Venice,"  he  said — "  I'll  go — somehow 
or  other.  I'll  be  the  man  who  can  bear  things  with- 
out becoming  like  that.  You  shan't  be  disap- 
pointed." 

He  came  back  again  and  seized  her  hand.  Then 
he  hurried  out. 

She  listened  to  the  door  slamming.  She  heard 
his  footsteps  in  the  quiet  street,  then  she  dropped 
down  on  the  mattress  on  the  drawing-room  floor. 

"  Oh,  you  fool !  "  she  whispered  under  her  breath. 
«0h,  you  fool!" 

But  wisdom  and  folly,  they  are  matters  of  en- 
vironment. Behind  it  all,  there  was  the  most  won- 
derful satisfaction  in  the  world  in  saying — "  Oh, 
you  fool ! " 


BOOK    III 
THE    CITY 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

THE    PALAZZO    CAPELLO 

They  tell  you — come  to  Venice  by  night ;  that  then 
you  will  drift  silently  into  the  marvellous  mystery  of 
it  all;  that  then  you  will  feel  the  weight  of  the 
centuries  in  every  shadow  that  lurks  in  the  deep  set 
doorways ;  that  then  you  will  realise  the  tragedies 
that  have  been  played,  the  romances  woven,  and  the 
dark  deeds  that  have  been  done  in  the  making  of  its 
history — all  this,  if  you  come  to  Venice  by  night. 

They  tell  you,  you  will  never  see  Venice  as  the 
tourist  sees  it,  if  you  will  but  do  this ;  that  the  im- 
pression of  mystery  will  outlast  the  sight  of  the 
Philistines  crowding  in  the  Square  of  St.  Mark's,, 
will  obliterate  the  picture  of  a  fleet  of  gondolas  tear- 
ing through  the  Grand  Canal,  led  by  a  conductor 
shouting  out  the  names  of  the  Palaces  as  they  pass. 
Your  conception  of  the  city  of  mystery  will  last 
for  ever,  so  they  tell  you,  if  you  do  but  come  to 
Venice  by  night. 

But  there  is  another  Venice  than  this,  a  Venice 
you  see  as  you  come  to  it  in  the  early  morning — a 
city  of  light  and  of  air,  a  city  of  glittering  water, 
of  domes  in  gossamer  that  rise  lightly  above  the 
surface,  finding  the  sun,  as  bubbles  that  melt  all  the 
prisms  of  light  into  their  liquid  shells. 

Come  to  Venice  in  the  early  morning  and  you  will 
207 


208     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

see  a  city  bathed  in  a  sea  of  light ;  for  it  is  not  only 
that  the  sun  shines  upon  it,  but  that,  like  the  white 
shoulders  of  a  mermaid,  glittering  with  the  water 
drops  as  she  rises  out  of  the  sea,  this  wonderful  city 
is  not  illuminated  only,  but  is  drenched  in  light  itself. 
It  is  no  city  of  shadow  and  mysteries  then.  There 
are  no  dark  water-ways,  no  deepening  gloom  beneath 
the  bridges.  In  the  early  morning,  it  lies,  as  yet  un- 
wakened,  blinking,  flashing,  burning — a  rose  opal, 
set  clear  against  the  sun. 

Then  the  deepest  shadow  Is  in  a  tone  of  gold,  the 
highest  light  in  a  mist  of  glittering  silver.  The 
domes  of  San  Marco  and  Santa  Maria  della  Salute 
are  caught  up  in  the  brilliancy  and  melt  shapelessly 
into  the  glow. 

Come  to  Venice  in  the  early  morning  and  you  will 
see  a  smelter's  furnace  into  which  has  been  cast  the 
gold  and  silver  from  a  boundless  treasure  hoard. 
You  will  see  all  that  white  and  yellow  metal  run- 
ning in  molten  streams  of  light ;  you  will  see  the 
vibrating  waves  of  air  as  the  flames  leap  upward, 
curling  and  twisting  to  the  very  gates  of  heaven 
itself.  You  will  see  a  city  of  gold  and  silver,  of 
light  and  air  all  made  liquid  in  one  sea  of  bril- 
liance, if  you  do  but  come  to  Venice  in  the  early 
morning. 

In  the  Grand  Canal,  just  at  the  comer  of  the 
Palazzo  Baharigo,  there  appears  the  entrance  to 
one  of  those  myriad  little  ways  that  shoot  secretly 
away  from  the  great,  wide  water  street.  Turning 
into  this,  the  Rio  San  Polo,  following  its  course  un- 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    209 

der  the  bridges  and  taking  the  second  turning  on  the 
left,  an  obedient  gondoher  will  swing  you  round 
with  one  sweep  of  his  long  oar  into  the  Rio  Marin. 

Being  human,  assuming  your  love  of  the  beautiful, 
taking  time  also  as  his  perquisite,  he  will  probably 
choose  more  devious  ways  than  this.  But,  everyone 
will  tell  you  that,  by  the  Rio  San  Polo,  it  is  the 
shortest. 

On  each  side  of  the  Rio  Marin,  there  runs  a  nar- 
row little  pathway.  Here,  the  houses  do  not  dip 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  the  space  of  light  is  wider, 
and  the  hurrying  of  the  pedestrian  on  the  footway 
seems  to  concentrate  life  for  a  moment  and  give  it 
speech,  in  a  place  where  everything  is  mute,  where 
everything  is  still. 

Idlers  gather  lazily  on  the  bridges  to  watch  the 
swaying  gondolas  as  they  pass  beneath.  Here,  even 
the  mystery  you  will  find  by  night,  is  driven  away. 
The  sun,  the  broad  stretch  of  heaven,  no  longer  a 
ribbon-strip  of  blue  tying  together  the  house-tops, 
these  combine  to  defy  mystery  in  the  Rio  Marin. 
Rose  trees  and  flowering  bushes  top  the  grey  walls ; 
lift  up  their  colours  against  a  cloudless  sky  and  smile 
down  to  you  of  gardens  concealed  on  the  other 
side. 

Towards  the  end  of  this  little  water-way,  almost 
opposite  the  Chiesa  Tedeschi,  stands  the  Palazzo 
Capello,  a  broad  and  somewhat  unbeautiful  house, 
looking  placidly  down  upon  the  quiet  water.  No 
great  history  is  attached  to  it.  No  poet  has  ever 
written  there,  seated  at  its  windows ;  no  tragedy  has 
been  played  that  the  guide  books  know  of,  no  blood 


210    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

has  been  splashed  against  its  walls.  You  will  not 
find  it  mentioned  in  any  of  the  descriptions  of  Venice, 
for  it  has  no  history  to  detain  the  ear;  it  bears  no 
show  of  ornament  without  to  attract  the  eye.  Yet, 
with  that  pomp  and  vanity  that  breathed  in  Venice 
in  the  middle  centuries,  it  was  called — a  palace — and 
only  to  those  who  know  it  from  within,  can  this 
dignity  of  name  seem  justified. 

A  great,  wide  door  divides  the  front  of  grey  stone, 
up  to  which  lead  steps  from  the  pathway — steps,  in 
the  crevices  of  which  a  patch  of  green  lies  here  and 
there  in  a  perfect  harmony  of  contrast  to  the  well- 
worn  slabs.  This  door  is  always  closed  and,  with  no 
windows  on  either  side,  only  the  broad  stretch  of 
masonry,  there  is  a  stem  appearance  about  the  place, 
suggesting  a  prison  or  a  barracks  in  its  almost  for- 
bidding aspect.  But  when  once  that  wide,  wooden 
gate  is  opened,  the  absence  of  windows  upon  the 
ground  floor  is  partly  explained  and  the  mind  is 
caught  in  a  breath  of  enchantment.  It  does  not  give 
entrance  to  a  hall,  but  to  an  archway — an  archway 
tunnelling  under  the  house  itself,  at  the  end  of  which, 
through  the  lace-work  of  wonderful  wrought-iron 
palings,  you  see  the  fairy-land  of  an  old  Italian  gar- 
den, glittering  in  the  sun. 

The  shadows  that  lie  heavily  under  the  archway 
only  serve  to  intensify  the  brilliance  of  the  light 
beyond.  Colours  are  concentrated  to  the  essence  of 
themselves  and  the  burst  of  sunshine,  after  the  dark- 
ness, brings  a  haze,  as  when  you  see  the  air  quiver- 
ing over  a  furnace. 

But,  having  gained  entrance  and  passed  that  door- 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    211 

way,  you  are  not  yet  within  the  house.  On  either 
side  of  this  cool  damp  tunnel,  making  way  to  the 
right  and  left  on  the  palace,  which  is  divided  into 
two  houses,  there  are  smaller  archways  cut  into  the 
wall.  Taking  that  on  your  left,  and  before  your 
eyes  have  grown  accustomed  to  the  confusion  of 
lights  and  shadows,  you  might  think  it  was  a  pas- 
sage burrowing  down  into  some  secret  comers  of  the 
earth.  Your  feet  stumble,  you  feel  your  way,  fingers 
touching  the  cold  walls,  suddenly  realising  that  there 
are  steps  to  mount,  not  to  descend  and,  groping  on- 
wards, you  reach  another  door  confronting  you  im- 
passably in  the  blackness. 

There  is  a  bell  here,  but  it  is  by  chance  you  find  it 
— a  long  chain,  like  that  at  a  postern  gate,  which 
depends  from  somewhere  above  your  head.  As  you 
pull  it,  there  is  a  clanging  and  a  jangling  quite  close 
to  your  ear,  shattering  in  a  thousand  little  pieces 
the  stillness  that  reigns  all  round. 

After  a  moment  or  so,  a  small  door  opens  within 
the  bigger  door,  a  curtain  is  pulled  and,  stepping 
through  the  tiny  entrance  for  which  your  head  must 
be  bent  low,  you  find  yourself  in  a  vast,  big  room — 
a  room  stretching  from  back  to  front  of  the  whole 
house — a  room  that  makes  the  meaning  of  the  word 
palace  seem  justified  a  thousand  times. 

At  either  end  are  windows,  so  broad,  so  high,  that 
the  great  stretch  of  this  vast  chamber,  with  its  lofty 
ceiling,  is  flooded  by  one  swift  stream  of  light.  Upon 
the  polished  floor  of  wood,  the  generous  sunlight  is 
splashed  In  daring  brightness,  throwing  all  near  it 
into  comparative  shade,  yet  reflecting  from  the  shin- 


212    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

ing  surface  of  the  ground  a  glow  that  fills  the  air 
with  a  mist  of  light. 

Along  the  walls  of  a  dull,  cool  grey,  big  pictures 
are  hung.  Many  there  are,  yet  so  spacious  is  the 
room,  that  they  do  not  appear  crowded;  there  is  no 
suggestion  of  a  well-stocked  gallery.  And  on  each 
side  of  the  room  two  rich,  warm-coloured  curtains 
hang,  concealing  beliind  them  silent,  heavy^^  doors, 
deep  set  within  the  wall. 

One  of  these,  if  you  open  it,  will  give  you  admit- 
tance to  a  tiny  little  room — so  tiny,  so  small,  that 
its  smallness  laughs  at  you,  as  for  the  moment  it 
peers  through  the  open  space  into  the  vast  chamber 
beyond. 

Close  the  door  and  the  smallness  seems  natural 
enough  then.  For  there,  sitting  perhaps  over  their 
afternoon  tea,  or  their  cups  of  coffee  in  the  evening, 
chatting  and  gossiping  as  tho'  they  had  just  met  to 
keep  each  other  company,  are  two  small  figures ; 
small  because  they  are  old — one,  that  of  an  old  man, 
whose  eyes  are  somewhat  dimmed  behind  the  high 
cheek  bones  and  the  shaggy  eyebrows,  the  other, 
crumpled  and  creased  like  a  silk  dress  that  has  lain 
long-folded  in  a  camphor-scented  drawer,  the  figure 
of  a  little  old  white-haired  lady. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

THE    LETTER— VENICE 

In  the  dally  affairs  of  those  two  old  people  in  the 
Palazzo  Capello,  there  was  one  undeviating  cere- 
mony, performed  with  the  regularity  and  precision 
of  those  mechanical  figures  that  strike  the  great  bell 
on  the  clock  tower  in  the  square  of  St.  Mark's. 

As  the  bells  of  the  churches  rang  out  the  hour  of 
ten  at  night,  Claudina,  the  old  dame  who  looked 
after  all  the  wants  of  this  worthy  pair,  entered  the 
little  room,  carrying  a  large  box  in  her  hands. 

Whatever  their  occupation  may  have  been,  whether 
they  were  playing  at  cribbage,  or  merely  writing  let- 
ters, up  went  their  white  heads  together  and  one  or 
the  other  would  say — in  Italian — "  You  don't  mean 
to  say  it's  ten  o'clock,  Claudina?" 

And  Claudina  would  bend  her  head,  with  a  sudden 
jerk,  like  a  nodding  mandarin,  her  big  earrings 
would  swing  violently  in  her  ears,  and  she  would 
plant  the  box  down  gently  upon  the  table. 

"  Si,  signora,"  she  said — always  in  the  same  tone 
of  voice,  as  though  she  had  suddenly  realised  that 
her  nod  of  the  head  was  not  quite  as  respectful  as  it 
ought  to  be. 

One  cannot  describe  this  as  a  ceremony ;  but  it  was 
the  prelude  to  all  the  serious  business  that  followed. 
Claudina  was  the  mace  bearer.     Her  entrance  with 

213 


214.    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

the  wooden  box  was  the  heralding  of  the  quaint  little 
procession  of  incidents  that  followed. 

It  was  an  evening  in  July,  in  that  self-same  year 
which  has  so  successfully  hidden  itself  in  the  crevices 
of  our  calendar.  The  jalousies  had  not  long  been 
closed  upon  a  sky  of  primrose,  in  which  the  stars 
were  set  like  early  drops  of  dew.  Claudina  had  just 
brought  in  a  letter  by  the  post.  It  was  half-past 
nine. 

"  A  letter,  signora,"  Claudina  had  said  and,  know- 
ing quite  well  who  the  letter  was  from,  she  had  not 
laid  it  down  upon  the  table  as  ordinary  letters  were 
treated,  but  had  given  it  directly  into  her  mistress's 
hand. 

If  the  old  Italian  servant  knows  curiosity,  she  does 
not  show  it.  Claudina,  once  the  letter  was  delivered, 
discreetly  left  the  room.  The  moment  the  door  had 
closed,  there  followed  as  pretty  a  play  of  courtesy 
as  you  might  have  wished  to  see. 

The  old  gentleman  laid  down  his  book. 

*'  It  is  from  John  ?  "  he  said  quickly. 

She  nodded  her  head  and  passed  it  across  to  him. 
Had  she  rolled  the  world  to  his  feet,  it  could  not  have 
been  more  generously  done.  And  had  it  been  the 
world,  he  could  not  have  taken  it  more  eagerly. 

His  finger  was  just  trembling  inside  the  flap  of 
the  envelope,  when  he  read  the  address. 

"  Why — it's  written  to  you,  my  dear,"  said  he, 
slowly  withdrawing  his  finger. 

She  smiled.  She  nodded  her  head  again.  It  was 
addressed  to  her ;  but  in  the  rightful  order  of  things, 
it  was  really  his  turn.     For  some  unknown  reason. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    215 

John  had  addressed  the  last  two  letters  to  her.  He 
never  did  do  that.  He  was  always  most  scrupulously 
fair  in  this  tacit  understanding  that  he  should  ad- 
dress his  letters  alternately,  first  to  his  father,  then 
to  his  mother.  This  was  the  only  time  he  had  broken 
the  unwritten  law.  It  was  really  not  her  letter  at 
all.  That  was  why  she  had  passed  it  across  at  once 
to  her  husband.  He  would  never  have  dreamed  of 
asking  for  the  letter  out  of  his  turn.  His  fingers 
often  twitched  while  her  poor  hands  fumbled  with  the 
envelope,  but  he  had  never  moved  an  inch  to  take  it, 
until,  of  her  own  accord,  she  had  handed  it  to  him. 

Now — knowing  that  it  was  his  turn,  his  hand  had 
stretched  out  for  it  naturally  the  moment  Claudina 
had  closed  the  door,  and  she  had  as  readily  given  it. 
But  there  was  a  secret  exultation  in  the  heart  of  her. 
John  had  addressed  it  to  her.  There  was  no 
getting  away  from  that. 

For  a  moment,  the  old  gentleman  sat  fingering  it 
in  dubious  hesitation.    Then  he  passed  it  back  again. 

"  It's  your  letter,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  You  open 
it."  And  picking  up  his  book,  he  pretended  to  go 
on  reading.  Of  course  he  did  not  see  a  single  word 
on  the  page  before  him.  Every  sense  in  his  body  was 
strained  to  catch  the  sound  of  the  tearing  paper  as 
she  broke  open  the  envelope.  But  there  was  no  sound 
at  all.  Another  moment  of  silence  and  she  was  bend- 
ing over  him  from  behind  his  chair,  her  arms  round 
his  neck  and  the  letter  held  before  his  eyes. 

*'  We'll  open  it  together,"  she  said. 

It  was  her  way  of  letting  him  do  it  without  know- 
ing that  he  had  given  way.     To  be  sure,  it  was  his 


216    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

finger  that  finally  broke  the  flap  of  the  envelope; 
but  then,  he  retained  all  the  dignity  of  the  sacrifice. 
And  so,  as  she  leant  over  his  shoulder,  they  read  it 
together,  with  little  exclamations  of  delight,  little 
interruptions  of  pleasure,  that  need  a  heart  for 
their  purer  translation,  and  cannot  be  written  here 
because  of  that  great  gulf  which  is  fixed  behind  the 
mind  and  the  pen — because  of  that  greater  gulf 
which  lies  between  the  word  and  the  eye  that 
reads  it. 

"  My  dearest " 

Just  those  two  words  beginning;  but  they  were 
almost  the  entire  letter  to  her.  They  set  her  little 
brown  eyes  alight,  her  heart  beating  quickly  behind 
the  stiff  bodice. 

**  /  have  left  writing  to  you  until  the  last  moment 
for  fear  I  should  be  unable  to  come  on  the  day  that 
you  were  expecting  me.  But  it  is  all  right.  I  am 
starting  to-morrow  morning,  and  shall  be  with  you 
the  usual  time  the  day  following,  just  about  sunset. 
I  can*t  tell  you  how  glad  I  shall  be  to  get  away  from 
here.  You  know  what  London  can  be  like  in  July,  and 
1  suppose  I  want  a  change  as  well.  I  canH  work  these 
days  at  all — but  I  don't  mean  to  worry  you.  I  ex- 
pect I  am  depressed  and  want  different  air  in  my 
lungs.  I  shall  go  up  to  the  bows  of  the  steamer  cross- 
ing to-morrow,  stand  there  with  my  mouth  open,  and 
get  it  forced  down  my  throat  like  a  dose. 

"  God  bless  you,  dearest.  Give  my  love  to  father, 
but  don't  tell  him  I  can't  work.  I  know  he  under- 
stands it  well  enough,  but  I  believe  it  depresses  him 
as  much  as  it  does  me." 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    217 

He  looked  up  simply  into  her  face  as  he  handed 
back  the  paper. 

"  You  see,  I  wasn't  meant  to  read  it,"  he  said 
quietly. 

Impulsively,  she  put  her  arm  round  his  neck.  She 
knew  so  Avell  how  that  had  hurt.  There  had  been 
letters  sometimes  that  she  was  not  meant  to  see. 
Of  course,  she  had  seen  them;  but  that  touch  of  in- 
timacy which,  when  you  are  a  lover,  or  a  mother, 
makes  letters  such  wonderful  living  things,  had  been 
utterly  taken  from  them.  They  had  contained  lov- 
ing messages  to  her.  But  the  writing  itself,  that  had 
been  meant  for  another  eye  to  read. 

"  But  it  was  only  because  he  was  thoughtful  about 
you,"  she  whispered —  "  not  because  he  didn't  want 
you  to  see.  He'll  tell  you  himself  quickly  enough 
that  he  can't  work  when  he  comes.  You  see  if  he 
doesn't.  He  can't  keep  those  sort  of  things  to  him- 
self. He  can  do  it  in  a  letter,  because  he  thinks  he 
ought  to.  But  he  won't  be  here  five  minutes  before 
he's  telling  you  that  he  can't  write  a  line.  And 
think !  He'll  be  here  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Oh — 
he  is  such  a  dear  boy !  Isn't  he  ?  Isn't  he  the  dear- 
est boy  two  old  people  ever  had  in  the  world?  " 

So  she  charmed  the  smile  back  into  his  eyes ;  never 
pausing  until  she  saw  that  passing  look  of  pain 
vanish  completely  out  of  sight.  And  so  Claudina 
found  them,  as  she  had  often  found  them  before, 
poring  once  again  over  the  letter  as  she  brought 
in  the  big  box. 

Up  went  the  two  white  heads  in  amazement  and 
concern. 


218     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  it's  ten  o'clock,  Clau- 
dina?" 

For  to  old  people,  you  know,  the  hours  pass  very 
quickly;  they  are  scarcely  awake,  before  they  are 
again  being  put  to  bed.  Time  hurries  by  them  with 
such  quiet  feet,  stepping  lightly  on  the  tips  of  its 
toes  lest  it  should  disturb  those  peaceful  last  mo- 
ments which  God  gives  to  the  people  who  are  old. 

Claudina  laid  down  the  big  box  upon  the  table. 
She  nodded  her  head;  her  earrings  shook. 

"  Si,  Signora,"  she  replied,  as   always. 

The  little  old  white-haired  lady  crumpled  the  let- 
ter into  her  dress ;  concealed  it  behind  the  stiff  black 
bodice.  Then  they  both  stood  to  their  feet,  and  the 
procession,  of  which  Claudina  was  the  herald,  began. 

First  of  all  the  big  wooden  box  was  opened,  and 
out  of  it  were  taken  numbers  and  numbers  of  little 
white  linen  bags  of  all  shapes  and  sizes.  White? 
Well,  they  were  white  once,  but  long  obedience  to  the 
service  for  which  they  were  required  had  turned  their 
white  to  grey. 

Each  one  of  them  was  numbered,  the  number 
stitched  in  thread  upon  the  outside ;  each  one  of  them 
had  been  made  to  fit  some  separate  Httle  ornament 
in  the  room,  to  wrap  it  up,  to  keep  the  dust  from  it 
through  the  night — a  night-cap  for  it,  in  fact.  At 
ten  o'clock  the  ornaments  were  put  to  bed;  after  the 
ornaments,  then  these  two  old  people — but  first  of  all 
their  treasures.  They  stood  by,  watching  Claudina 
tuck  them  all  up,  one  by  one,  and  it  gave  them  that 
delicious  sensation  which  only  old  people  and  young 
children  know  anything  about — the  sensation  that 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    219 

they  are  sitting  up  late  that  others  are  going  to 
bed  before  them. 

Of  course  they  never  knew  they  had  that  sensa- 
tion ;  they  were  not  aware  of  it  for  a  moment.  But 
you  might  have  known  by  the  way  they  turned  and 
smiled  at  each  other  when  the  big  Dresden-china 
shepherdess  was  popped  into  her  bag,  you  might 
have  known  that  in  the  hearts  of  them,  that  was  what 
they  felt. 

This  evening  in  particular,  their  smiles  were  more 
radiant  than  ever.  The  old  lady  forgot  to  make  her 
little  exclamations  of  terror  when  Claudina  could  not 
get  the  night-cap  over  the  head  of  the  Dresden-china 
shepherdess,  and  was  in  danger  of  dropping  them 
both  together;  the  old  gentleman  forgot  his  quiet — 
"  Be  careful,  Claudina — be  careful."  For  whenever 
his  wife  was  very  excited,  it  always  made  him  realise 
that  he  was  very  quiet,  very  self-possessed.  But  they 
felt  none  of  their  usual  anxiety  on  this  evening  in 
July.  In  two  days — in  less — John  would  be  with 
them.  They  had  waited  a  whole  year  for  this  mo- 
ment and  a  whole  year,  however  quickly  the  sepa- 
rate moments  may  pass,  is  a  long,  long  time  to  old 
people. 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  the  old  gentleman  said, 
presently,  as  the  last  ornaments  were  being  ranged 
upon  the  table,  standing  in  readiness  for  their  night- 
caps to  go  on.  *'  There  is  one  thing  I  don't  quite 
know  about." 

She  slipped  her  arm  into  his  and  asked  in  a  whis- 
per what  it  was.  There  was  no  need  to  talk  in  a 
whisper,  for  Claudina  did  not  know  a  word  of  Eng- 


220    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

Ush ;  but  she  guessed  he  was  going  to  say  something 
concerning  John  and  about  him,  she  nearly  always 
spoke  in  a  whisper. 

"It's  the— the  shop,"  he  rephed— "  I— I  don't 
like  to  tell  John." 

"Oh — but  why  not.?"  She  clung  a  little  closer 
to  him. 

"  It  isn't  that  I  don't  think  he  would  understand 
— ^but  it's  just  like  that  sentence  in  his  letter  about 
me.  I  feel  it  would  hurt  him  if  he  thought  I  couldn't 
sell  my  pictures  any  more.  I  believe  he  would  blame 
himself  and  think  he  ought  to  be  giving  us  money,  if 
he  knew  that  I  had  had  to  start  this  curio  shop  to 
make   things    meet  more    comfortably." 

She  nodded  her  head  wisely.  She  would  have  been 
all  for  telling  her  son  everything.  But  when  he  men- 
tioned the  fact  of  John  thinking  he  ought  to  support 
them,  and  when  she  considered  how  John  would  need 
every  penny  that  he  earned  to  support  the  woman 
whom  she  longed  for  him  to  make  his  wife — it  was 
a  different  matter.  She  quite  agreed.  It  was  bet- 
ter that  John  should  be  told  nothing. 

"  You  don't  think  he'll  find  out — do  you  ?  "  she 
said,  and  her  eyes  looked  startled  at  the  thought. 

"  No — no — I  shouldn't  think  so.  It  isn't  as  if  I 
had  to  be  there  every  day.  Foscari  looks  after  it 
quite  well.  Though  I'm  always  afraid  he'll  sell  the 
very  things  I  can't  bear  to  part  with.  He  sold  the 
old  brass  Jewish  lamp  the  other  day,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  parted  with  it  for  worlds.  But  I  dare  say  if  I 
tell  him  to  be  careful — I  dare  say " 

It  was  rather  sad,  this  curio  shop.    It  would  have 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    221 

been  very  sad  if  his  wife  had  not  appreciated  the  need 
for  it;  if  she  had  not  made  it  easier  by  telHng  him 
how  brave  he  was,  by  sharing  with  him  the  sense  of 
shame  he  felt  when  it  became  apparent  that  his  pic- 
tures were  no  longer  saleable. 

For  when  he  had  reached  the  age  of  seventy-three, 
that  was  what  they  had  told  him.  If  he  had  not 
been  a  landscape  painter,  it  might  have  been  dif- 
ferent; but  at  seventy-three,  when  one's  heart  is 
weak,  it  is  not  possible,  it  is  not  wise,  to  go  far  afield, 
to  tramp  the  mountains  as  once  he  had  done,  in 
search  of  subjects  new.  So,  he  had  been  compelled 
to  stay  at  home,  to  try  and  paint  from  memory  the 
pictures  that  lay  heaped  within  his  mind.  Then  it 
was  that  they  began  to  tell  him  that  they  could  not 
sell  his  work ;  then  he  came  to  find  that  there  must 
be  other  means  of  support  if  they  were  not  to  appeal 
to  John  for  aid.  And  so,  having  a  collection  of 
treasures  such  as  artists  find,  picked  up  from  all  the 
odd  comers  of  Europe,  he  bethought  him  of  a  curio 
shop  and,  finding  a  little  place  to  let  at  a  quiet  cor- 
ner in  the  Merceria,  he  took  it,  called  it — The  Treas- 
ure Shop — and  painting  the  name  in  a  quaint  old 
sign  which  he  hung  outside,  obliterated  his  identity 
from  the  public  eye. 

For  weeks  beforehand,  they  had  discussed  this 
plan.  Some  of  their  own  treasures,  of  course,  would 
have  to  be  sacrificed ;  in  fact,  Claudina  carried  many 
little  grey  night-caps  away  with  her  in  the  wooden 
box — night-caps  that  no  longer  had  Dresden  heads 
to  fit  them.  But  the  money  they  were  going  to  make 
out  of  the  Treasure  Shop  would  make  up  for  all 


222     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

these  heart-rending  sacrifices.  They  would  even  be 
able  to  send  John  little  presents  now  and  then.  There 
was  nothing  like  a  curio-shop  for  minting  money, 
especially  if  the  curios  were  really  genuine,  as  were 
theirs. 

But  that  was  the  very  rub  of  it.  When  he  came 
to  open  the  shop,  the  old  gentleman  found  it  was  the 
very  genuineness  of  the  things  he  had  to  sell  that 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  part  with  them.  He 
loved  them  too  well.  And  even  the  most  ignorant 
collectors,  British  sires  with  check-cloth  caps  and 
heavy  ulsters,  old  ladies  with  guide  books  in  one 
hand  and  cornucopias  of  maze  for  the  pigeons  in  the 
other,  even  they  seemed  to  pitch  upon  the  very  things 
he  loved  the  most. 

He  asked  exorbitant  prices  to  try  and  save  his 
treasures  from  their  clutches  and  mostly  this  method 
succeeded;  but  sometimes  they  were  fools  enough  to 
put  the  money  down.  For  there  was  one  thing  he 
could  never  do;  he  could  not  belittle  the  thing  that 
he  loved.  If  it  was  good,  if  it  was  genuine,  if  it 
really  was  old,  he  had  to  say  so  despite  himself. 
Enthusiasm  would  let  him  do  no  otherwise.  But 
then,  when  he  had  said  all  he  could  in  its  praise,  he 
would  ask  so  immense  a  sum  that  the  majority  of 
would-be  purchasers  left  the  shop  as  if  he  had  in- 
sulted them. 

So  it  was  that  the  Treasure  Shop  did  not  fulfil 
all  the  expectations  they  had  had  of  it.  It  made 
just  enough  money  for  their  wants  ;  but  that  was  all. 

And  now  came  the  question  as  to  whether  they 
should  let  John  know  of  it.    Long  into  the  night  they 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    223 

discussed  the  question,  their  two  white  heads  lying 
side  by  side  on  the  pillows,  their  voices  whispering 
in  the  darkness. 

"  And  yet — I  believe  he  would  understand,"  said 
the  little  old  lady  on  her  side — "  he's  such  a  dear, 
good  boy,  I'm  sure  he  would  understand." 

*'  I  don't  know — I  don't  know,"  replied  the  old 
gentleman  dubiously — "  It  will  be  bad  enough  when 
he  sees  my  last  pictures.  No — no — I  don't  think 
I'll  tell  him.  Foscari  can  look  after  the  place.  I 
need  hardly  be  there  at  all  while  he's  with  us." 

And  then,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon  each 
other's  foreheads — saying — "  God  bless  you  " — as 
they  had  done  every  night  their  whole  lives  long,  they 
fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

THE    RETURN— VENICE 

It  was  sunset  when  John  arrived.  The  gondolas 
were  riding  on  a  sea  of  rose ;  the  houses  were  stand- 
ing, quietly,  silently,  as  you  will  see  cattle  herd, 
knee-deep  in  the  burning  water.  Here  and  there  in 
the  distance,  the  fiery  sun  found  its  reflection  in 
some  obscure  window,  and  burnt  there  in  a  glowing 
flame  of  light.  Then  it  was  a  city  of  rose  and  pink, 
of  mauve  and  blue  and  grey,  one  shading  into  the 
other  in  a  texture  so  delicate,  so  fine  that  the  very 
threads  of  it  could  not  be  followed  in  their  change. 

John  took  a  deep  breath  as  he  stepped  into  his 
gondola.  It  needed  such  colour  as  this  to  wash  out 
the  blackness  of  that  night  in  London.  It  needed 
Buch  stillness  and  such  quiet  to  soothe  the  rancour 
of  his  bitterness ;  for  the  stillness  of  Venice  is  the 
hushed  stillness  of  a  church,  where  all  anger  is 
drugged  to  sleep  and  only  the  sorrow  that  one 
learns  of  can  hold  against  the  spell  and  keeps  its 
eyes  awake. 

Now,  in  the  desolation  of  his  mind,  John  was 
learning,  of  the  things  that  have  true  value  and  of 
those  which  have  none.  It  is  not  an  easy  lesson  to 
acquire,  for  the  sacrifice  of  pre-conceived  ideas  can 
only  be  accomplished  on  the  altar  of  bitterness  and 
only  the  burning  of  despair  can  reduce  them  to  the 
ashes  in  which  lies  the  truth  concealed. 

2U 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    223 

Having  deposited  his  belongings  in  his  rooms  in 
the  Rio  della  Sacchere,  where  he  always  stayed,  he 
set  off  on  foot  by  the  narrow  little  pathways  to  the 
Palazzo  Capello. 

That  was  always  a  moment  in  John's  life  when, 
upon  his  arrival  every  year,  he  first  opened  the  big 
gate  that  closed  on  to  the  fondamenta.  It  was  al- 
ways a  moment  to  be  remembered  when  first  he  be- 
held, from  beneath  the  archway,  the  glow  of  the 
flaming  sunset  in  that  old  Italian  garden,  framed  in 
the  lace-worked  trellises  of  iron. 

Life  had  these  moments.  They  are  worth  all  the 
treasure  of  the  Indies.  The  mind  of  a  man  is  never 
so  possessed  of  wealth  as  when  he  comes  upon  them ; 
for  in  such  moments  as  these,  his  emotions  are  wings 
which  no  sun  of  vaunted  ambition  can  melt;  in  such 
moments  as  these,  he  touches  the  very  feet  of  God. 

Closing  the  big  door  behind  him,  John  stood  for 
a  moment  in  contemplation.  The  great  disc  of  the 
sun  had  just  sunk  down  behind  the  cypress  trees. 
Their  deep  black  forms  were  edged  with  a  bright 
thread  of  gold.  Everything  in  that  old  garden  was 
silhouetted  against  the  glowing  embers  of  the  sun- 
set, and  every  bush  and  every  shrub  was  rimmed  with 
a  halo  of  hght. 

This  was  the  last  moment  of  his  warfare.  Had 
his  ideal  not  lifted  again  before  the  sight  of  such 
magnificence  as  this,  it  would  inevitably  have  been 
the  moment  of  defeat.  Through  the  blackness  of 
the  tunnel,  it  is  inviolably  decreed  that  a  man  must 
pass  before  he  shall  reach  the  ultimate  light;  but 
if,  when  that  journey  is  accomplished,  the  sight  of 


226    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

beauty,  which  is  only  the  symbol  of  the  good,  if  that 
does  not  touch  him  and,  with  a  beckoning  hand,  raise 
his  mind  into  the  mystery  of  the  infinite,  then  that 
immersion  in  the  darkness  has  not  cleansed  his  soul. 
He  has  been  tainted  with  it.  It  clings  like  a  mist 
about  his  eyes,  blurring  all  vision.  He  has  been 
weighed  in  the  balance  that  depends  from  the  nerve- 
less hand  of  Fate,  and  has  been  found — wanting. 

But  as  a  bird  soars,  freed  from  the  cage  that  held 
it  to  earth,  John's  mind  rose  triumphantly^  Ac- 
knowledging all  the  credit  that  was  Amber's  due — 
and  but  for  her,  he  could  not  have  seen  the  true 
beauty,  the  beauty  of  symbolism,  in  that  sunset 
there — he  yet  had  passed  unscathed  from  the  depth 
of  the  shadow  into  the  heart  of  the  light. 

Here  was  a  moment  such  as  they  would  have  known 
had  the  story  of  the  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense 
come  true.  Here  was  a  moment  when  they  would 
have  stood,  hands  touching,  hearts  beating,  seeing 
God.  And  yet,  though  she  was  hundreds  of  miles 
from  him  then,  John's  mind  had  so  lifted  above  the 
bitterness  of  despair,  had  so  outstripped  the  haunt- 
ing cries  of  his  body,  that  he  could  conjure  Jill's 
presence  to  his  side  and,  in  an  ecstasy  of  faith,  be- 
lieve her  with  hira,  seeing  the  beauty  that  he  saw; 
there. 

In  the  text-books  of  science,  they  have  no  other 
name  for  this  than  hysteria;  but  in  those  unwritten 
volumes — pages  unhampered  by  the  deceptive  sight 
of  words — a  name  is  given  to  such  moments  as  these 
which  we  have  not  the  C3'es  to  read,  nor  the  sim- 
plicity of  heart  to  understand. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    227 

Forcing  back  the  rush  of  tears  to  his  ej^es,  John 
passed  under  the  Httle  archway  in  the  wall,  mounted 
the  dark  stone  steps,  dragged  down  the  chain,  and 
with  the  clanging  of  the  heavy  bell  was  brought 
back,  tumbling  to  reality. 

With  a  rattling  of  the  rings,  the  heavy  curtain 
was  pulled,  the  little  door  was  thrown  open.  The 
next  moment,  he  was  gripping  Claudina's  hand — 
shaking  it  till  her  earrings  swung  violently  to  and 
fro. 

Then  came  his  father,  the  old  white-haired  gen- 
tleman, looking  so  old  to  have  so  young  a  son. 

They  just  held  hands,  gazing  straight,  deep  down 
into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  boy,"  said  the  old  man  jaun- 
tily. He  stood  with  his  back  to  the  light.  He  would 
not  for  the  world  have  shown  that  his  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears.  Old  men,  like  little  boys,  think  it  baby- 
ish to  cry — perhaps  it  is  partly  because  the  tears 
rise  so  easily. 

And  last  of  all,  walking  slowly,  because  her  pa- 
ralysis had  affected  her  whole  body,  as  well  as  ren- 
dering powerless  her  hands,  came  the  little  old 
white-haired  lady.  There  was  no  attempt  from  her 
to  hide  the  tears.  They  were  mixed  up  in  a  con- 
fusion of  happiness  with  smiles  and  with  laughter  in 
the  most  charming  way  in  the  world. 

She  just  held  open  her  thin,  frail  arms,  and  there 
John  buried  himself,  whispering  over  and  over  again 
in  her  ear — 

"  My   dearest — my   dearest — my   dearest " 

And  who  could  blame  him  if  Jill  were  there  still 


228     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

in  his  mind.  There  comes  a  time  when  a  man  loves 
his  mother  because  she  is  a  woman,  just  as  the 
woman  he  loves.  There  comes  a  time  when  a  mother 
loves  her  son,  because  he  is  a  man  just  as  the  man 
she  has  loved. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

THE    TRUE    MOTHER 

It  was  not  that  evening  that  she  plied  her  questions, 
this  gentle,  white-haired  old  lady.  That  first  even- 
ing of  his  arrival,  there  was  John's  work  to  talk  of, 
the  success  of  his  last  book  to  discuss,  the  opinions 
upon  his  criticisms  to  lay  down.  The  old  gentleman 
had  decided  views  upon  such  matters  as  these.  He 
talked  aflBrmatively  with  wise  nods  of  the  head,  and 
the  bright  brown  eyes  of  his  wife  followed  all  his 
gesticulations  with  silent  approval.  She  nodded  her 
head  too.  All  these  things  he  was  saying  then,  he 
had  said  before  over  and  over  again  to  her.  Yet 
they  every  one  of  them  seemed  new  when  he  once 
more  repeated  them  to  John. 

This  critic  had  not  understood  what  he  had  been 
writing  about ;  that  critic  had  hit  the  matter  straight 
on  the  head.  This  one  perhaps  was  a  little  too 
profuse  in  his  praise;  that  one  had  struck  a  note  of 
personal  animosity  which  was  a  disgrace  to  the 
paper  for  which  he  wrote. 

"  Do  you  know  the  man  who  wrote  that,  John?  " 
he  asked  in  a  burst  of  righteous  anger. 

John  smiled  at  his  father's  enthusiasm.  One  is 
so  much  wiser  when  one  is  young — one  is  so  much 
younger  when  one  is  old. 

"  I  know  him  by  sight,"  he  said — "  we've  never 
299 


230    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

met.  But  he  always  reviews  me  like  that.  I  suppose 
I  irritate  him." 

His  mother  felt  gently  for  his  hand.  Without 
looking  down,  he  found  the  withered  fingers  in  his. 

"How  could  you  irritate  him,  my  darling?"  she 
asked.     It  seemed  an  impossibility  to  her. 

"  Well — there  are  always  some  people  whom  we 
irritate  by  being  alive,  my  dearest.  I'm  not  the  only 
one  who  annoys  him.     I  expect  he  annoys  himself.'* 

"  Ah,  yes !  "  The  old  gentleman  brought  down 
his  fist  emphatically  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair — 
"  But  he  should  keep  these  personal  feelings  out  of 
his  work.  And  yet — I  suppose  this  kind  of  thing 
will  always  exist.  Oh — if  it  only  pleased  the  Lord 
that  His  people  should  be  gentlemen ! " 

So  his  father  talked,  giving  forth  all  the  enthu- 
siasm of  his  opinions  which  for  so  long  had  been 
stored  up  in  the  secret  of  his  heart. 

It  was  no  longer  his  own  work  that  interested  him ; 
for  whatever  contempt  the  artist  may  have  for  his 
wage,  he  knows  his  day  is  past  when  the  public  will 
no  longer  pay  him  for  his  labour.  All  the  heart  of 
him  now,  was  centred  in  John.  It  was  John  who 
would  express  those  things  his  own  fingers  had  failed 
to  touch.  He  had  seen  it  exultantly  in  many  a  line, 
in  many  a  phrase  which  this  last  book  had  con- 
tained; for  though  the  mind  which  had  conceived  it 
was  a  new  mind,  the  mind  of  another  generation 
than  his  own,  yet  it  was  the  upward  growth  from 
the  thoughts  he  had  cherished,  a  higher  understand- 
ing of  the  very  ideas  that  he  had  held.    He,  Thomas 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    231 

Grey,  the  artist,  was  living  again  in  John  Grey,  the 
writer,  the  journahst,  the  driver  of  the  pen.  In  the 
mind  of  his  son,  was  the  resurrection  of  his  own  in- 
tellect, the  rejuvenescence  of  his  own  powers,  the 
vital  link  between  him,  passing  into  the  dust,  and 
those  things  which  are  eternal. 

It  was  not  until  John  had  been  there  two  or  three 
days,  that  his  mother  found  her  opportunity. 

The  old  gentleman  had  gone  to  the  Merceria  to 
look  after  the  Treasure  Shop.  Foscari,  it  seemed, 
had  been  selling  some  more  of  his  beloved  curios.  A 
packet  of  money  had  been  sent  to  him  the  evening 
before  for  a  set  of  three  Empire  fans,  treasures  he 
had  bought  in  Paris  twenty  years  before.  With  a 
smothered  sigh,  the  little  old  lady  had  consented  to 
their  going  to  the  Merceria.  Only  to  make  a  show, 
he  had  promised  her  that.  They  should  never  be 
purchased  by  anyone,  and  he  put  such  a  price  upon 
them  as  would  frighten  the  passing  tourist  out  of 
his  wits.  It  was  like  Foscari  to  find  a  man  who  was 
rich  enough  and  fool  enough  to  buy  them.  With  his 
heart  thumping  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
not  quite  being  able  to  look  John  in  the  eyes,  he  had 
made  some  excuse — a  picture  to  be  framed — and 
gone  out,  leaving  them  alone. 

This  was  the  very  moment  John  had  dreaded.  He 
knew  that  those  bright  brown  eyes  had  been  reading 
the  deepest  corners  of  his  heart,  had  only  been  bid- 
ing their  time  until  such  moment  as  this.  He  had 
felt  them  following  him  wherever  he  went;  had 
realised  that  into  everything  he  did,  they  were  read- 


232    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

ing  the  hidden  despair  of  his  mind  with  an  intuition 
so  sure,  so  unerring,  that  it  would  be  quite  useless 
for  him  to  endeavour  to  hide  anything  from  her. 

And  now,  at  last  they  were  alone.  The  sun  was 
burning  in  through  the  windows  into  the  little  room. 
The  old  garden  below  was  pale  in  the  heat  of  it. 

For  a  little  while,  he  stood  there  at  the  window 
in  nervous  suspense,  straining  to  think  of  things  to 
say  which  might  distract  her  mind  from  that  sub- 
ject which  he  knew  to  be  uppermost  in  her  thoughts. 
And  all  the  time  his  face  was  turned  away  as  he 
gazed  down  on  to  the  old  garden,  he  could  still  feel 
her  eyes  watching  him,  until  at  last  the  growing 
anticipation  that  she  would  break  the  silence  with  a 
question  to  which  he  could  not  reply,  drove  him 
blindly  to  speak. 

He  talked  about  his  father's  pictures  ;  tried  in  vain 
to  discover  whether  he  had  sold  enough  for  their 
wants,  whether  the  orders  he  had  received  were  as 
numerous,  whether  his  strength  permitted  him  to 
carry  them  all  out.  He  talked  about  the  thousand 
things  that  must  have  happened,  the  thousand  things 
they  must  have  done  since  last  he  was  with  them. 
And  everything  he  said,  she  answered  gently,  dis- 
regarding  all  opportunity  to  force  the  conversation 
to  the  subject  upon  which  her  heart  was  set.  But 
in  her  eyes,  there  was  a  mute,  a  patient  look  of 
appeal. 

The  true  mother  is  the  last  woman  in  the  world 
to  beg  for  confidence.  She  must  win  it ;  then  it  comes 
from  the  heart.  In  John's  silence  on  that  one  sub- 
ject that  was  so  near  as  to  be  one  with  the  very 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    233 

centre  of  her  being,  it  was  as  though  she  had  lost 
the  power  of  prayer  in  that  moment  of  her  life  when 
she  must  need  it  most. 

At  last  she  could  bear  It  no  longer.  It  could  not 
be  want  of  confidence  in  her,  she  told  herself.  He 
was  hurt.  Some  circumstance,  some  unhappiness 
had  stung  him  to  silence.  Instinctively,  she  could 
feel  the  pain  of  it.  Her  heart  ached.  She  knew 
his  must  be  aching  too. 

"  John,"  she  said  at  length  and  she  laid  both  those 
poor  withered  hands  in  his — "  John — you're  un- 
happy." 

He  tried  to  meet  her  eyes ;  but  they  were  too 
bright;  they  saw  too  keenly,  and  his  own  fell.  The 
next  moment,  with  straining  powerless  efforts,  she 
had  drawn  him  on  to  his  knees  beside  her  chair,  his 
head  was  buried  in  her  lap  and  her  hands  were  gently 
stroking  his  hair  in  a  swift,  soothing  motion. 

"  You  can  tell  me  everything,"  she  whispered ; 
and  oh,  the  terrible  things  that  fond  heart  of  hers 
imagined!  Terrible  things  they  seemed  to  her,  but 
they  would  have  brought  a  smile  into  John's  face 
despite  himself,  had  he  heard  them.  "  You  can  tell 
me  everything,"  she  whispered  again. 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell,  dearest,"  he  replied. 

For  there  was  nothing  to  tell;  nothing  that  she 
would  understand.  The  pain  of  his  losing  Jill, 
would  only  become  her  pain  as  well,  and  could  she 
ever  judge  rightly  of  Jill's  marriage  with  another 
man,  if  she  knew?  She  would  only  take  his  side. 
That  dear,  good,  gentle  heart  of  hers  was  only 
capable  of  judging  of  things  in  his  favour.     She 


234    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

would  form  an  utterly  false  opinion  and,  he  could 
not  bear  that.  Much  as  he  needed  sympathy,  the 
want  of  it  was  better  than  misunderstanding. 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell,"  he  repeated. 

Still  she  stroked  his  head.  There  was  not  even 
one  thought  of  impatience  in  the  touch  of  her 
fingers.  It  may  be  said  without  fear  or  hesitation 
that  a  mother  at  least  knows  her  own  child;  and 
this  is  the  way  with  children  when  they  are  in  trouble. 
They  will  assure  you  there  is  nothing  to  tell.  She 
did  not  despair  at  that.  For  as  with  John  asking 
his  question  of  Jill  in  Kensington  Gardens,  so  she 
asked,  because  she  knew. 

"Isn't  it  about  the  Lady  of  St.  Joseph.?"  she 
said  presently.     "  Isn't  that  why  you're  unhappy  ?  " 

He  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  She  watched  him  as  he 
moved  aimlessly  to  the  window.  It  was  a  moment  of 
suspense.  Then  he  would  tell  her,  then  at  that 
moment,  or  he  would  close  the  book  and  she  would 
not  see  one  figure  that  was  traced  so  indelibly 
upon  its  pages.  She  held  her  breath  as  she  watched 
him.  Her  hands  assumed  unconsciously  a  pathetic 
gesture  of  appeal.  If  she  spoke  then,  it  might  alter 
his  decision ;  so  she  said  nothing.  Only  her  eyes 
begged  mutely  for  his  confidence. 

Oh — it  is  impossible  of  estimate,  the  worlds,  the 
weight  of  things  infinite,  that  swung,  a  torturing 
balance,  in  the  mind  of  the  little  old  white-haired 
lady  then.  However  much  emotion  may  bring 
dreams  of  it  to  the  mind  of  a  man,  his  passion  is  not 
the  great  expression  by  which  he  is  to  be  judged; 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    235 

is  the  woman  who  loves.  It  is  the  man  who  is 
loved.  He  may  believe  a  thousand  times  that  he 
knows  well  of  the  matter;  but  the  great  heart,  the 
patience,  the  forbearance,  these  are  all  the  woman's 
and,  from  such  are  those  little  children  who  are  of 
the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

If  these  qualities  belonged  to  the  man,  if  John 
had  possessed  them,  he  could  not  have  resisted  her 
tender  desire  for  confidence.  But  when  the  heart 
of  a  man  is  hurt,  he  binds  his  wounds  with  pride  and 
it  is  of  pride,  when  one  loves,  that  love  knows 
nothing. 

Turning  round  from  the  window,  John  met  his 
mother's  eyes. 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell,  dear,"  he  said  bitterly. 
**  Don't  ask  me — there's  nothing  to  tell." 

Her  hands  dropped  their  pathetic  gesture.  She 
laid  them  quietly  in  her  lap.  If  the  suffering  of 
pain  can  be  reproach,  and  perhaps  that  is  the  only 
reproach  God  knows  of  in  us  humans,  then,  there  it 
was  in  her  eyes.  John  saw  it  and  he  did  not  need 
for  understanding  to  answer  to  the  silence  of  its 
cry.  In  a  moment  he  was  by  her  side  again,  his  arms 
thrown  impulsively  about  her  neck,  his  lips  kissing 
the  soft,  wrinkled  cheek.  What  did  it  matter  how 
he  disarranged  the  little  lace  cap  set  so  daintily  on 
her  head,  or  how  disordered  he  made  her  appearance 
in  his  sudden  emotion?  Notliing  mattered  so  long 
as  he  told  her  everything. 

"  Don't  think  I'm  unkind,  little  mother.  I  can't 
talk  about  it — that's  all.  Besides — there's  nothing 
— absolutely   nothing   to   say.      I   don't   suppose   I 


236    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

shall  ever  see  her  again.  We  were  just  friends, 
that's  all — only  friends." 

Even  this  was  more  than  he  could  bear  to  say. 
He  stood  up  again  quickly  to  force  back  the  tears 
that  were  swelling  in  his  throat.  Tears  do  not  be- 
come a  man.  It  is  the  most  reasonable,  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  that  he  should  abominate 
them,  and  so  he  seldom,  if  ever,  knows  the  wonderful 
moment  it  is  in  the  life  of  a  woman  when  he  cries 
like  a  baby  on  her  shoulder.  It  is  only  right  that 
it  should  be  so.  Women  know  their  power  well 
enough  as  it  is.  And  in  such  a  moment  as  this,  they 
realise  their  absolute  omnipotence. 

And  this  is  just  why  nature  decrees  that  it  is 
weak,  that  it  is  foolish  for  a  man  to  shed  tears  in 
the  presence  of  a  woman.  Undoubtedly  nature  is 
right. 

Before  they  had  well  risen  to  his  eyes,  John  had 
left  the  room.  In  the  shadows  of  the  archway  be- 
neath the  house,  he  was  brushing  them  roughly  from 
his  cheek  while  upstairs  the  gentle  old  lady  sat  just 
where  he  had  left  her,  thinking  of  the  thousands  of 
reasons  why  he  would  never  see  the  lady  of  St. 
Joseph  again. 

She  was  going  away.  She  did  not  love  him.  They 
had  quarrelled.  After  an  hour's  contemplation,  she 
decided  upon  the  last.     They  had  quarrelled. 

Then  she  set  straight  her  cap. 


CHAPTER    XXVin 

THE    TREASURE    SHOP 

At  a  quiet  comer  in  the  Merceria,  stood  the  Treas- 
ure Shop.  In  every  respect  it  had  all  the  features 
which  these  little  warehouses  of  the  world's  curiosi- 
ties usually  present.  Long  chains  of  old  copper 
vessels  hung  down,  on  each  side  of  the  doorway, 
reaching  almost  to  the  ground.  Old  brass  braziers 
and  incense  burners  stood  on  the  pavement  outside 
and,  in  the  window,  lay  the  oddest,  the  wildest  as- 
sortment of  those  objects  of  antiquity — ^brass  can- 
dlesticks, old  fans,  hour-glasses,  gondola  lamps, 
every  conceivable  thing  which  the  dust  of  Time  has 
enchanced  in  value  in  the  eyes  of  a  sentimental 
public. 

At  the  back  of  the  window  were  hung  silk  stuffs 
and  satin,  rich  old  brocades  and  pieces  of  tapestry 
— just  that  dull,  burnished  background  which  gives 
a  flavour  of  age  as  though  with  the  faint  scent  of 
must  and  decay  that  can  be  detected  in  its  wither- 
ing threads. 

All  these  materials,  hanging  there,  shut  out  the 
light  from  the  shop  inside.  Across  the  doorstep, 
the  sun  shone  brilliantly,  but,  as  though  there  were 
some  hand  forbidding  it,  it  advanced  no  further. 
Within  the  shop,  was  all  the  deepest  of  shadow — 
shadow  like  heavy  velvet  from  which  permeated  this 
dry  and  dusty  odour  of  a  vanished  multitude  of 
years. 

SS7 


238     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

The  Treasure  Shop  was  a  most  apt  name  for  it. 
In  that  uncertain  light  within,  you  could  just  imag- 
ine that  your  fingers,  idly  fumbling  amongst  the 
numberless  objects,  might  chance  upon  a  jewelled 
casket  holding  the  sacred  dust  of  the  heart  of  some 
Roman  Emperor  or  the  lock  of  some  dead  queen's 
hair. 

Atmosphere  has  all  the  wizardry  of  a  necromancer. 
In  this  dim,  faded  light,  in  this  faint,  musty  smell 
of  age,  the  newest  clay  out  of  a  living  potter's 
hands  would  take  upon  itself  the  halo  of  romance. 
The  toiicli  of  dead  fingers  would  cling  to  it,  the 
scent  of  forgotten  rose  leaves  out  of  gardens  now 
long  deserted  would  hover  about  the  scarce  cold 
clay.  And  out  of  the  sunshine,  stepping  into  this 
subtle  atmospheric  spell,  the  eyes  of  all  but  those 
who  know  its  magic  are  wrapt  in  a  web  of  illusion ; 
the  Present  slips  from  them  as  a  cloak  from  the  will- 
ing shoulders ;  they  are  touching  the  Past. 

Just  such  a  place  was  the  Treasure  Shop.  Its 
atmosphere  was  all  this  and  more.  Sitting  there 
on  a  stool  behind  his  heaped-up  counter,  in  the 
midst  of  this  chaos  of  years,  the  old  gentleman  was 
no  longer  a  simple  painter  of  landscape,  but  an  old 
eccentric,  whose  every  look  and  every  gesture  were 
begotten  of  his  strange  and  mysterious  acquaintance 
with  the  Past. 

It  came  to  be  known  of  him  that  he  was  loth  to 
part  with  his  wares.  It  came  to  be  told  of  him  in 
the  hotels  that  he  was  a  strange  old  man  who  had 
lived  so  long  in  his  musty  environment  of  dead  peo- 
ple's belongings  that  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
sell  them ;  as  though  the  spirits  of  those  departed 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    239 

owners  abode  with  him  as  well,  and  laid  their  cold 
hands  upon  his  heart  whenever  he  would  try  to  sell 
the  treasures  they  once  had  cherished. 

And  all  this  was  the  necromancy  of  the  atmos- 
phere in  that  little  curio  shop  in  the  Merceria.  But 
to  us,  who  know  all  about  it,  whose  eyes  are  not 
blinded  with  the  glamour  of  illusion,  there  is  little 
or  nothing  of  the  eccentric  about  Thomas  Grey. 

It  is  not  eccentric  to  have  a  heart — it  is  the  most 
common  possession  of  humanity.  It  is  not  eccen- 
tric to  treasure  those  things  which  are  our  own, 
which  have  shared  life  with  us,  which  have  become  a 
part  of  ourselves ;  it  is  not  eccentric  to  treasure  them 
more  than  the  simpler  necessities  of  existence.  We 
all  of  us  do  that,  though  fear  of  the  accusation  of 
sentimentality  will  not  often  allow  us  to  admit 
it.  It  is  not  eccentric  to  put  away  one's  pride,  to 
take  a  lower  seat  at  the  guest's  table  in  order  that 
those  we  love  shall  have  a  higher  place  in  the  eyes 
of  the  company.  We  all  would  do  that  also,  if  we 
obeyed  the  gentle  voice  that  speaks  within  every- 
one of  us. 

But  if  by  chance  this  judgment  is  all  at  fault ;  if 
by  chance  it  is  eccentric  to  do  these  things,  then  this 
was  the  eccentricity  of  that  white-haired  old  gentle- 
man— Thomas  Grey. 

Whenever  a  customer — and  ninety  per  cent,  of 
them  were  tourists — came  into  the  shop,  he  treated 
them  with  undisguised  suspicion.  They  had  a  way 
of  hitting  upon  those  very  things  which  he  valued 
most — those  very  things  which  he  only  meant  to  be 
on  show  in  his  little  window. 

Of   course,   when   they   selected   something   which 


240    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

he  had  only  recently  acquired,  his  manner  was 
courtesy  itself.  He  could  not  say  very  much  in  its 
favour,  but  then,  the  price  was  proportionately 
small.  Under  circumstances  such  as  these,  they 
found  him  charming.  But  if  they  happened  to  cast 
their  eyes  upon  that  Dresden-china  figure  which 
stood  so  boldly  in  the  fore-front  of  the  window;  if 
by  hazard  they  coveted  the  set  of  old  ivory  chess 
men,  oh,  you  should  have  seen  the  frown  that 
crossed  his  forehead  then !    It  was  quite  ominous. 

"  Well — that  is  very  expensive,"  he  always  said 
and  made  no  offer  to  remove  it  from  its  place. 

And  sometimes  they  replied 

*'  Oh,  yes — I  expect  so.  I  didn't  think  it  would 
be  cheap.  It's  so  beautiful,  isn't  it?  Of  course — 
really — really  old." 

And  it  was  so  hard  to  withstand  the  flattery  of 
that.  A  smile  of  pleasure  would  lurk  for  a  moment 
about  his  eyes.  He  would  lean  forward  through 
the  dark  curtains  of  brocades  and  tapestries  and 
reach  it  down  for  inspection. 

"  It  is,"  he  would  say  in  the  gratified  tone  of  the 
true  collector — "  It  is  the  most  perfect  specimen  I 
have  ever  seen.     You  see  the  work  here — this  glaze, 

that  colour "  and  in  a  moment,  before  he  was 

aware  of  what  he  was  doing,  he  would  be  pointing 
out  its  merits  with  a  quivering  finger  of  pride. 

"  Oh,  yes — I  think  I  must  have  it,"  the  customer 
would  suddenly  say — "  I  can't  miss  the  opportunity. 
It  would  go  so  well  with  the  things  in  my  cojlection." 

Then  the  old  gentleman  realised  his  folly.  Then 
the  frown  returned,  redoubled  in  its  forbidding  scowl. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    241 

He  began  putting  the  Dresden  figure  back  again  in 
the  window  from  whence  It  had  come. 

*'  But  I  said  I'd  take  It,"  the  customer  would 
exclaim  more  eager  than  ever  for  its  possession. 

"  Yes — ^yes — I  know — but  the  price  is — ^well  it's 
prohibitive.  I  want  seventy-five  pounds  for  that 
figure." 

"Seventy-five!" 

*'  Yes — I  can't  take  anything  less." 

"  Oh "  and  a  look  of  disappointment  and  dis- 
may. 

**  You  don't  want  it  ?  "  he  would  ask  eagerly. 

"  No — I  can't  pay  as  much  as  that." 

Then  the  smile  would  creep  back  again  into  his 
eyes. 

"  Of  course — It's  a  beautiful  thing,"  he  would  say 
clumsily — "  a  beautiful  thing." 

And  when  he  went  home,  he  would  tell  the  little 
old  white-haired  lady  how  much  it  had  been  ad- 
mired, and  they  would  call  back  to  memory  the  day 
when  they  had  bought  it — so  long  ago  that  it  seemed 
as  though  they  were  quite  young  people  then. 

So  It  fell  out  that  this  old  gentleman  of  the 
curio  shop  In  the  Merceria  came  to  be  known  for  his 
seeming  eccentricities.  People  talked  of  him.  They 
told  amusing  stories  of  his  strange  methods  of  doing 
business. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Treasure  Shop  in  the  Mer- 
ceria,"  they  said  over  the  dinner  tables  In  London 
when  they  wanted  to  show  how  intimately  they  knew 
their  Europe.  "  The  old  man  who  owns  that — 
there's  a  character  for  you ! "     They  even  grew  to 


242     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

making  up  anecdotes  about  him,  to  show  how  keenly 
observant  they  were  when  abroad.  Everyone,  even 
Smelfungus  and  Mundungus,  would  be  thought  sen- 
timental travellers  if  they  could. 

It  was  the  most  natural  coincidence  in  the  world 
then,  that  John,  strolling  aimlessly  in  the  arcades 
of  the  Square  of  St.  Mark's  that  morning  after  he 
had  left  his  mother,  should  overhear  a  conversation 
in  which  the  eccentric  old  gentleman  in  the  Merceria 
was  introduced. 

Outside  Lavena's  two  women  were  taking  coffee, 
as  all  well-cultured  travellers  do. 

*'  — my  shopping  in  Kensington "  he  heard 

one  of  them  say,  concluding  some  reference  to  a 
topic  which  they  were  discussing. 

John  took  a  table  near  by.  It  is  inevitable  with 
some  people  to  talk  of  Kensington  and  Heme  Hill 
when  abroad.  John  blessed  them  for  it,  nevertheless. 
There  was  that  sound  in  the  word  to  him  then, 
which  was  worth  a  vision  of  all  the  cities  of  Europe. 

He  ordered  his  cup  of  coffee  and  listened  eagerly 
for  more.  But  that  was  the  last  they  said  of  Ken- 
sington. The  lady  flitted  off  to  other  topics.  She 
spoke  to  her  friend  of  the  curio  shop  in  the  Mer- 
ceria. 

Did  she  know  the  place.?  Well,  of  course  not,  if 
she  had  not  been  to  Venice  before.  It  was  called 
the  Treasure  Shop.  She  had  found  it  out  for  her- 
self. But,  then,  it  always  was  her  object,  when 
abroad,  to  become  intimate  with  the  life  of  the  city 
in  which  she  happened  to  be  staying.  It  was  the 
only  way  to  know  places.     Sight-seeing  was  abso- 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    243 

lutely  waste  of  time.  And  this  old  gentleman  was 
really  a  character — so  unbusiness-like — so  typically 
Italian !  Of  course,  he  spoke  English  perfectly — 
but,  then,  foreigners  always  do.  No — she  could  not 
speak  Italian  fluently — make  herself  understood  at 
table,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing — anyhow,  enough 
to  get  along.  But,  to  go  back  to  the  old  gentle- 
man in  the  Treasure  Shop,  she  ought  to  go  and  see 
him  before  she  left  Venice.  She  was  going  early 
the  next  week.''  Oh — then,  she  ought  to  go  that 
morning.  He  was  such  a  delightful  personality. 
So  fond  of  the  curios  in  his  shop  that  he  could 
scarcely  be  persuaded  to  part  with  them.  There 
was  one  thing  in  particular,  a  Dresden  figure,  which 
he  had  in  the  front  of  the  window.  He  would  not 
part  with  that  to  anyone.  Well — asked  such  a 
price  for  it  that,  of  course,  no  one  bought  it. 

But  would  it  not  be  rather  amusing  if  someone 
did  actually  agree  to  pay  the  price — not  really,  of 
course,  only  in  fun,  restoring  it  the  next  day,  but 
just  to  see  how  he  would  take  it.?  Was  she  really 
going  next  week.?  Then  why  not  go  and  see  the 
Treasure  Shop  at  once?  She  would.?  Oh — that  was 
quite  splendid! 

And  off  they  went,  John  following  quietly  at  their 
heels.  This  old  Italian  who  could  not  bear  to  part 
with  his  wares  because  he  loved  them  so  much,  there 
was  something  pathetic  in  that;  something  that  ap- 
pealed to  John's  sense  of  the  colour  in  life.  This 
was  a  little  incident  of  faded  brown,  that  dull, 
warm  tint  of  a  late  Octolicr  day  when  life  is  be- 
ginning to  shed  its  withering  leaves,  when  the  trees. 


244    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

with  that  network  of  bare,  stripped  branches,  are 
Just  putting  on  their  faded  lace.  However  unsym- 
pathetic had  been  the  telling,  he  had  seen  the 
colour  of  it  all  with  his  own  eyes.  He  followed  them 
eagerly,  anxious  to  behold  this  old  Italian  gentle- 
man for  himself,  to  confirm  his  own  judgment  of  the 
pathos  of  it  all. 

Letting  them  enter  first,  for  he  had  no  desire  to 
listen  to  their  dealings,  he  took  his  position  out- 
side the  window,  intending  to  wait  till  they  came 
out. 

There  was  the  Dresden  figure  the  lady  had  men- 
tioned. Ah !  No  wonder  that  he  asked  a  large  price 
for  it!  They  had  one  just  like  that  at  the  Palazzo 
Capello.  His  father  had  often  said  that  if  he  could 
get  a  pair  of  them,  they  would  be  almost  price- 
less. Supposing  he  bought  it  for  his  father? 
Would  it  be  cruel  to  the  old  gentleman  inside.? 
Perhaps,  if  he  knew  that  it  was  to  make  a  pair,  he 
would  be  more  reconciled  to  its  loss. 

John  waited  patiently,  gazing  about  him  until 
the  ladies  should  come  out  and  leave  the  field  free 
for  him  to  make  his  study — ^his  study  in  a  colour 
of  brown. 

Presently  the  draperies  in  the  back  of  the  window 
were  pulled  aside.  An  old  man  leaned  forward, 
hands  trembling  in  the  strain  of  his  position,  reach- 
ing for  the  Dresden  figure.  John  bit  on  the  ex- 
clamation that  rose  to  his  lips. 

It  was  his  father!  Had  he  seen  him?  No!  He 
slipped  back  again  into  the  darkness  of  the  shop 
and  the  brocades  and  the  tapestries  fell  together 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTITUL  NONSENSE    245 

once  more  into  their  place  as  though  nothing  had 
happened. 

What  did  it  mean?  Was  it  true?  With  an  ef- 
fort, he  held  back  from  his  inclination  to  rush  into 
the  shop,  making  sure  of  the  reality  of  what  he  had 
seen.  If  it  were  true,  then  he  knew  that  his  father 
had  not  meant  him  to  know.  If  it  were  true,  he 
knew  what   the  pain   of  such  a  meeting  would  be. 

Crossing  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  he 
tried  to  peer  in  through  the  shop  door;  but  there 
was  that  clear-cut  ray  of  sunshine  on  the  step,  bar- 
ring the  entrance.  Only  vaguely,  like  dim,  black 
shadows  on  a  deep  web  of  gloom,  could  he  see  the 
moving  figures  of  the  two  ladies  who  had  entered. 
On  an  impulse,  he  turned  into  the  magazzino  by 
which  he  was  standing. 

Who  was  the  owner  of  the  curio  shop  on  the  other 
side?  They  did  not  know.  What  was  his  name? 
They  could  not  say?  Had  he  been  there  long?  Not 
so  very  long.  About  a  year.  He  was  an  Eng- 
lishman, but  he  spoke  Italian.  He  lived  in  Venice. 
They  had  heard  some  say  in  the  Rio  Marin.  He 
was  not  used  to  the  trade.  It  was  quite  true  that 
he  did  not  like  to  sell  his  things.  They  had  been 
told  he  was  a  painter — ^but  that  was  only  what  peo- 
ple said. 

That  was  sufficient.  They  needed  to  say  no  more. 
This  answered  the  questions  that  John  had  put  that 
morning  to  his  mother.  His  father  could  no  longer 
sell  his  pictures.  In  a  rush  of  light,  he  saw  the 
whole  story,  far  more  pathetic  to  him  than  he  had 
imagined  with  his  study  in  brown. 


246    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

One  by  one,  they  were  selling  the  treasures  they 
had  collected.  Now,  he  understood  the  meaning  of 
those  empty  night-caps  which  Claudina  carried  away 
with  her  every  evening.  They  said  the  things  were 
broken ;  they  had  said  it  with  nervous  little  glances 
at  each  other  and  then  at  Claudina.  At  the  time, 
he  had  read  those  glances  to  mean  that  it  was 
Claudina  who  had  broken  them.  But  no — it  was 
not  Claudina.  This  was  the  work  of  the  heavy,  the 
ruthless  hand  of  cruel  circumstance  in  which  the 
frailest  china  and  the  sternest  metal  can  be  crushed 
into  the  dust  of  destruction. 

In  a  moment,  as  it  was  all  made  clear,  John  found 
the  tears  smarting  in  his  eyes.  As  he  stood  there 
in  the  little  shop  opposite,  he  painted  the  whole  pic- 
ture with  rapid  strokes  of  the  imagination. 

The  day  had  come  when  his  father  could  no 
longer  sell  his  pictures.  Then  the  two  white  heads 
had  nodded  together  of  an  evening  before  Claudina 
came  in  with  the  night-caps.  More  emphatically 
than  ever,  they  had  exclaimed — "  You  don't  mean 
to  say  it's  ten  o'clock,  Claudina?"  And  Claudina, 
laying  the  box  on  the  table,  beginning  to  take  out 
the  night-caps  and  place  forth  the  treasures  before 
she  tucked  them  up,  would  vouchsafe  the  answering 
nod  of  her  head.  At  last,  one  evening,  watching 
the  Dresden  figure  being  put  to  bed,  his  father  had 
thought  of  the  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 

They  had  not  decided  upon  it  at  once.  Such  de- 
terminations as  these  come  from  the  head  alone  and 
have  to  pass  before  a  stern  tribunal  of  the  heart  be- 
fore license  is  given  them.     He  could  just  imagine 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    247 

how  bitter  a  tribunal  that  had  been;  how  inflexibly 
those  two  brave  hearts  had  sat  in  judgment  upon 
so  hard  a  matter;  how  reluctantly  in  the  end  they 
had  given  their  consent. 

Then,  with  the  moment  once  passed,  the  license 
once  granted,  John  could  see  them  so  vividly,  ques- 
tioning whether  they  should  tell  him,  their  decision 
that  it  would  not  be  wise,  his  father  fearing  that  it 
would  lessen  his  esteem,  his  mother  dreading  that  he 
would  feel  called  upon  to  help  them.  Finally,  that 
first  day,  when  the  Treasure  Shop  had  been  opened 
and  his  father,  the  artist,  the  man  of  tempera- 
ment, with  all  the  finest  perceptions  and  sensibili- 
ties that  human  nature  possesses,  had  gone  to  busi- 
ness. 

So  truly  he  could  see  the  moment  of  his  departure. 
Nothing  had  been  said.  He  had  just  taken  the 
little  old  white-haired  lady  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her.  That  was  all.  It  might  have  been  that  he 
was  merely  going  out,  as  he  had  quietly  said  that 
morning,  to  see  about  the  framing  of  a  picture. 
No  one  would  ever  have  thought  that  he  was  about 
to  pass  through  the  ordeal  of  becoming  a  shop- 
keeper, because,  in  his  old  age  he  had  failed  as  an 
artist. 

All  this,  Incident  by  incident,  he  painted,  a  se- 
quence of  pictures  in  his  mind. 

Presently  the  curtains  in  the  shop-window  stirred 
again.  John's  eyes  steadied,  his  lips  parted  as  he 
held  his  breath.  The  Dresden  figure  appeared,  like 
a  marlonet  making  its  bow  to  the  pubHc.  Then 
followed  the  head  and  shoulders  of  his  father.   There 


248    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

was  a  smile  on  his  face,  a  glow  of  genial  satis- 
faction. They  had  not  bought  it.  The  price  had 
been  too  much.  That  little  Dresden  figure,  playing 
upon  its  lute,  decoyed  many  a  customer  into  the 
Treasure  Shop,  with  its  living  tunes ;  but  like  a  will- 
o'-the-wisp,  it  always  evaded  them.  Back  it  danced 
again  into  the  fore-front  of  the  window  where  the 
old  ivory  chess-men  stood  stolidly  listening  to  its 
music  of  enchantment.  You  might  almost  have  seen 
them  nodding  their  heads  in  approval. 

John  felt  a  lump  rise  quickly  in  his  throat.  He 
knew  just  what  his  father  was  feeling ;  he  knew  just 
what  was  in  his  mind.  He  realised  all  his  sense  of 
relief  when  the  Dresden  figure  made  its  reappearance. 
If  it  had  not  come  back  into  the  window,  he  could 
not  have  restrained  his  desire  to  march  into  the 
shop  and  repeat  every  word  of  the  conversation  to 
which  he  had  listened. 

But  it  was  safe  once  more  and,  with  a  breath  of 
satisfaction,  he  moved  away  towards  the  Rialto,  his 
head  hanging  as  he  walked. 

That  afternoon  at  tea,  with  the  little  cups  that 
had  no  handles,  he  made  no  comment  on  his  father's 
absence.  The  little  old  white-haired  lady  was 
trembling  that  he  would  ask,  but  he  said  not  a 
word. 

Only  that  evening,  after  Claudina  had  come  in 
for  her  ceremony  and  he  was  saying  good-night,  he 
put  both  hands  on  his  father's  shoulders  and,  im- 
pulsively drawing  him  forward,  kissed  his  forehead. 
Then  he  left  the  room. 

The  two   old   people  sat  staring  at  each  other 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    249 

after  he  tiad  gone.  What  did  It  mean?  Why  had  he 
done  it  ? 

*'  Why,  he  hasn't  kissed  you  since  he  was  eight 
years  old,"  said  his  mother. 

The  old  gentleman  shook  his  head  thoughtfully — 
*'  No — I  can't  understand  it.  Don't  you  remember 
that  first  evening  he  refused,  when  I  bent  down  to 
kiss  him  and  he  blushed,  drew  back  a  little  and  held 
out  his  hand.?  " 

She  smiled. 

*'  You  were  hurt  about  it  at  first,"  she  reminded 
him. 

"  Yes — but  then  when  you  said — *  John's  think- 
ing about  becoming  a  man  ' — of  course,  it  seemed 
natural  enough  then.  And  he's  never  done  it  since 
— till  now.    I  wonder  why." 

The  old  gentleman  went  to  bed  very,  very  silent 
that  night,  and  long  after  Claudina  had  taken  away 
the  lamp,  he  could  feel  John's  lips  burning  on  his 
forehead  and  the  blood  burning  in  his  cheeks.  Some- 
thing had  happened.  He  could  not  quite  understand 
what  it  was.  Some  change  had  taken  place.  He 
felt  quite  embarrassed;  but  he  fell  asleep  before  he 
could  realise  that  he  was  feeling  just  what  John  had 
felt  that  night  when  he  was  eight  years  old.  That 
was  what  had  happened — that  was  the  change.  The 
child  was  now  father  to  the  man — and  the  man  was 
feeling  the  first  embarrassment  of  the  child — so  the 
last  link  had  been  forged  between  the  irrevocable 
past  and  the  eternal  present. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 
THE   CANDLE   FOR   ST.   ANTHONY 

If  you  know  aught  of  the  history  of  Venice ;  if  the 
strenuous  eflTorts  of  all  those  little  lives  that  have 
done  their  work  and  lived  their  day  in  that  vast 
multitude  of  human  ephemera  should  have  any  mean- 
ing for  you;  if,  in  the  flames  of  colour  that  have 
glowed  and  vanished  in  the  brazier  of  Time,  you  can 
see  faces  and  dream  dreams  of  all  that  romantic 
story,  then  it  is  no  wasting  of  a  sunny  morning  to 
sit  alone  upon  the  Piazetta,  your  face  turned  to- 
wards San  Giorgio  Maggiore  and,  with  the  sun 
glinting  upwards  from  the  glittering  water,  weave 
your  visions  of  great  adventure  in  the  diaphanous 
mist  of  light. 

It  was  in  such  a  way  as  this  that  John  was 
spending  one  day  when  he  could  not  work,  when  the 
little  old  white-haired  lady  was  busy  with  Claudina 
over  the  duties  of  the  house,  when  his  father  had 
departed  upon  that  engrossing  errand  of  seeing  to 
the  framing  of  a  picture. 

The  sun  was  a  burning  disc,  white  hot  in  a  smel- 
ter's furnace.  A  few  white  sails  of  cloud  lay  be- 
calmed, inert,  asleep  in  a  sky  of  turquoise.  John 
sat  there  blinking  his  eyes  and  the  windows  in  the 
houses  on  San  Giorgio  blinked  back  in  sleepy  recog- 
nition as  though  the  heat  was  more  than  they  could 

960 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    251 

bear.  Away  down  the  Giudecca,  the  thin  bare  masts 
of  the  clustering  vessels  tapered  into  the  still  air — 
giant  sea-grass,  which  the  sickle  of  a  storm  can  mow 
down  like  rushes  that  grow  by  the  river's  edge.  Their 
reflections  wriggled  like  a  nest  of  snakes  in  the  danc- 
ing water,  the  only  moving  thing  in  that  sleepy  day. 
Everything  else  was  noiseless ;  everything  else  was 
still. 

John  gazed  at  it  all  through  half-closed  eyes,  till 
the  point  of  the  Campanile  across  the  water  seemed 
to  melt  in  the  quivering  haze,  and  the  dome  of  the 
chiesa  was  lost  in  the  light  where  the  sun  fell  on  it. 
What  had  changed.'*  What  was  different  to  his  eyes 
that  had  been  for  the  eyes  of  those  thousands  of 
workers  who  had  toiled  and  fought,  lived  and  died, 
like  myriads  of  insects  to  build  this  timeless  city  of 
light,  this  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense.?  What  had 
altered.'*  A  few  coping  stones,  perhaps,  a  few  mosaics 
renewed ;  but  that  was  all.  It  was  just  the  same  as  it 
had  been  in  the  days  of  the  Council  of  Ten;  just 
the  same  as  when  Petrach,  from  his  window  on  the 
Riva  degli  Schiavona,  sat  watching  the  monster  gal- 
leys ride  out  in  all  their  pomp  and  blazonry  across 
the  pearl  and  opal  waters  of  the  lagoons. 

In  another  moment  the  present  would  have  slipped 
from  him ;  he  would  have  been  one  of  the  crowd  upon 
the  Piazetta,  watching  the  glorious  argosy  of  Do- 
menico  Michieli  returning  from  the  Holy  Land,  with 
its  sacred  burdens  of  the  bodies  of  St.  Isidore  from 
Chios  and  S.  Donato  from  Cephalonia ;  in  another 
moment  he  would  have  been  seeing  them  unload  their 
wondrous  spoils  of  the  East,  their  scents  and  their 


252    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

spices,  their  silks  and  their  sandalwood,  had  not  a 
most  modern  of  modern  hawkers,  his  little  tray  slung 
by  straps  from  his  shoulder,  chosen  him  out  for  prey. 

"  Rare  coins,  signor,"  he  said — "  coins  from  every 
country  in  the  world." 

And  for  the  price  of  one  lira,  he  offered  John  an 
English  penny. 

John  looked  him  up  and  down. 

"  Is  this  your  idea  of  humour? "  he  asked  in 
Italian. 

The  man  emphatically  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh,  no,  signor !    It  is  a  rare  coin.'* 

John  turned  away  in  disgust. 

*'  You'd  better  go  and  learn  your  business,"  he 
said.  "  That's  an  English  penny.  It's  only  worth 
ten  centesimi." 

The  hawker  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  walked 
away.  He  had  got  the  coin  from  a  Greek  whose 
ship  lay  in  the  Giudecca  there.  It  was  no  good  say- 
ing what  the  Greek  had  said.  The  signor  would 
never  believe  him.  He  cast  a  wandering  eye  at  the 
ships  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  once  more. 

John  watched  his  retreating  figure  with  a  sense 
of  irritation — irritation  because  the  man  had  gone 
away  thinking  him  an  English  fool — irritation  be- 
cause, unasked,  the  hawker  had  betrayed  to  him  his 
loss  of  a  sense  of  humour. 

To  be  offered  an  English  penny  for  one  lira!  To 
be  told  quite  seriously  that  it  was  a  rare  coin! 
And  to  take  it  in  all  seriousness ;  to  go  to  the  trouble 
of  saying  in  an  injured  voice  that  it  was  only  worth 
ten  centesimi!     Was  this  what  he  had  fallen  to? 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    253 

Was  his  sense  of  humour  so  far  gone  as  this?  Of 
course  it  was  a  rare  coin !  Had  there  not  been  times 
when  an  Enghsh  penny  would  have  saved  him  from 
the  dire  awkwardness  of  an  impossible  position. 
How  about  the  chair  in  Kensington  Gardens?  How 
about  the  friend  who  mounted  the  'bus  with  him  in 
the  cheerful  expectation  that  he  was  going  to  pay? 
Of  course  it  was  a  rare  coin !  Why,  there  were  times 
when  it  was  worth  a  hundred  lire! 

He  called  the  hawker  back. 

*'  Give  me  that  coin,"  he  said. 

The  man  took  it  out  with  a  grin  of  surprise. 

*'  It  cost  me  half  a  lira,  signor,"  he  said,  which 
was  a  lie.  But  he  told  it  so  excellently  that  John 
paid  him  his  price. 

"  Do  you  think  they'll  find  it  worth  a  candle  at 
the  shrine  of  St.  Anthony  ?  "  asked  John. 

"You  have  lost  something,  signor?" 

He  said  it  so  sympathetically. 

"  My  sense  of  humour,"  said  John,  and  off  he 
strode  to  St.  Mark's,  the  hawker  gazing  after  him. 

Without  laughter  in  it,  the  voice  is  a  broken  reed ; 
without  laughter  in  it,  the  heart  is  a  stone,  dullened 
by  a  flaw;  without  laughter  in  it,  even  a  prayer 
has  not  the  lightness  or  the  buoyancy  of  breath  to 
rise  heavenwards. 

Can  there  be  one  woman  in  the  world  who  has 
never  prayed  to  St.  Anthony  in  all  seriousness  for 
some  impossible  request  which,  by  rights,  she  should 
have  enquired  for  at  the  nearest  lost  property  office 
— for  a  lost  lock  of  hair  that  was  not  her  own — one 
of  those  locks  of  hair  that  she  ties  to  the  wardrobe 


254    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

in  the  morning  and  combs  out  with  all  the  serious- 
ness in  the  world?  Surely  there  must  have  been  one 
out  of  the  thousands?  Then  why  not  for  a  lost 
sense  of  humour?  There  is  no  oflBce  in  the  world 
that  will  return  you  such  valuable  property  as  that, 
once  it  has  slipped  your  fingers.  He  has  the  sense 
himself,  has  St.  Anthony.  Think  of  the  things  he 
has  found  for  you  in  your  own  hands,  the  jewels 
that  he  has  discovered  for  you  clasped  about  your 
own  neck!  Why,  to  be  sure,  he  must  have  a  sense 
of  humour.  And  if  it  is  impossible  to  pay  an  Eng- 
lish penny  for  his  candle  in  an  Italian  church — an 
English  penny,  mind  you,  which  has  profited  some 
poor  beggar  by  the  sum  of  one  lira ;  if  it  is  a  sacri- 
lege, a  levity,  to  ask  him  for  the  return  of  so  in- 
valuable a  quality  as  a  lost  gift  of  laughter,  then 
why  pray  at  all,  for  without  laughter  in  it,  even  a 
prayer  has  not  the  lightness  or  the  buoyancy  of 
breath  to  rise  heavenwards. 

If,  when  one  drops  upon  one's  knees  at  night  and, 
beginning  to  deceive  oneself  in  one's  voluntary  con- 
fessions, making  oneself  seem  a  fine  fellow  by  tardy 
admissions  of  virtue  and  tactful  omissions  of  wrong, 
if  when  one  shows  such  delightful  humanity  in  one's 
prayers  as  this,  and  cannot  laugh  at  oneself  at  the 
same  time,  cannot  see  that  it  is  but  a  cheating  at  a 
game  of  Patience,  then  it  might  be  as  well  not  to  pray 
at  all.  For  the  humour  in  which  a  prayer  is  prayed, 
is  the  humour  in  which  a  prayer  will  be  judged,  and 
if,  seriously,  one  deceives  oneself  into  believing  that 
one  is  a  fine  fellow,  just  so  seriously  will  that  deceit 
be  weighed ;  for  there  are  mighty  few  of  us  who  are 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    9.55 

fine  fellows,  which  is  a  great  pitj,  for  so  mighty 
few  of  us  to  know  it. 

By  the  time  John  had  reached  the  shrine  of  St. 
Anthony  in  the  Duomo,  by  the  time  his  English 
penny  had  rattled  in  the  box  along  with  all  the  other 
Italian  coins,  by  the  time  the  first  words  of  his 
prayer  were  framed  upon  his  lips,  a  laugh  began  to 
twinkle  in  his  eyes ;  he  had  found  his  sense  of 
humour,  he  had  found  his  gift  of  laughter  once  more. 
It  was  in  his  own  prayer.  Before  he  could  utter  it, 
he  was  smiling  to  think  how  St.  Anthony  must  be 
amused  by  the  whole  incident.  Then,  all  it  needed 
was  for  him  to  be  grateful  and,  dropping  his  head 
in  his  hands,  he  expressed  his  gratitude  by  asking 
for  other  things. 

St.  Mark's  is  one  of  the  few  churches  in  the  world 
where  you  can  pray — one  of  the  few  churches  in  the 
world  where  they  have  not  driven  God  out  of  the 
Temple,  like  a  common  money-changer,  driven  Him 
out  by  gaudy  finery,  by  motley  and  tinsel.  Mass  at 
the  High  Altar  there,  is  the  great  Passion  Play  it 
was  meant  to  be,  performed  upon  a  stage  unhung 
with  violent  colours,  undecked  with  tawdry  gems. 
They  had  no  pandering  fear  of  the  God  they  wor- 
shipped, when  they  built  that  theatre  of  Christianity 
in  the  great  Square  of  St.  Mark's.  The  drama  of 
all  that  wonderful  story  has  a  fit  setting  there.  No 
stage  is  Kt  quite  like  it;  no  tragedy  is  so  tragic  in 
all  its  awful  solemnity  as  when  they  perform  the 
Mass  in  the  duomo  of  St.  Mark's.  As  the  Host  is 
elevated,  as  that  sonorous  bell  rings  out  its  thrill- 
ing  chime  and   as   the   thousand  heads   sink  down 


256    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

within  two  thousand  hands,  a  spirit  indeed  is  rush- 
ing upwards  in  a  lightning  passage  to  its  God. 

Once  his  head  was  bowed,  once  his  eyes  were 
closed,  John  was  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  his 
prayer.  He  did  not  observe  the  party  of  people 
who  came  by.  He  raised  his  head,  but  his  eyes  were 
fixed  before  him  towards  the  little  shrine.  He  did 
not  see  one  separate  herself  from  the  party,  did  not 
notice  her  slip  away  unobserved  and,  coming  back 
when  they  had  gone  on,  seat  herself  on  the  chair 
close  by  his  side. 

Only  when  his  thoughts  were  ended,  when  St.  An- 
thony had  listened  to  all  that  he  had  lost,  to  all  the 
aching  story  of  his  heart,  did  he  turn  to  find  what 
St.  Anthony  had  brought  him. 

His  lips  trembled.  He  rubbed  and  rubbed  his 
eyes. 

There  on  the  seat  beside  him,  her  hands  half 
pleading,  her  eyes  set  ready  to  meet  his  own,  sat 
JilL 


CHAPTER   XXX 

THE   QUALITIES   OF    IGNATIA 

In  amazement,  John  put  out  his  hand.  He  touched 
her  to  see  if  she  was  real.  Her  hand  answered.  She 
caught  his  finger.     Then  she  let  it  fall. 

"  Are  you  sorry  ?  "  she  whispered. 

He  looked  up  at  the  image  of  St.  Anthony,  then 
back  at  her ;  around  the  church,  then  back  once  more 
at  her. 

"Where  have  you  come  from?"  he  asked. 

"  From  home — from  London." 

"When?" 

"  I  arrived  last  night.'* 

"  Alone? '» 

"No!    No!   With  the  Crossthwaites." 

"  Then  what  has  happened.?  " 

"  Why — nothing    has    happened — and ^"    her 

voice  dropped  below  the  whisper — that  strange  pitch 
in  which  you  hear  not  a  syllable,  yet  know  the 
worst — "  and  everything  has  happened." 

"  You're  going  to  be  married?  " 

It  sounded  no  less  terrible  in  his  voice  because  he 
knew  it. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  why  have  you  come  here?  " 

"  The  Crossthwaites  were  going.  They  asked  me 
to  come  too.    It  was  the  only  chance  I  knew  I  should 

267 


258     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

ever  have — our  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense — I  had 
to  come." 

Still  John  gazed  at  her,  as  though  she  were  un- 
real. One  does  not  always  believe  one's  own  eyes, 
for  there  are  some  things,  which  the  readiness  to  see 
will  constitute  the  power  of  vision.  He  put  out  his 
hand  again. 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  it,"  he  said  slowly.  *'  Here, 
just  a  minute  ago,  I  was  telling  St.  Anthony  all  I 
had  lost.  You — the  best  thing  in  my  life — my  ideal 
as  well — even  my  sense  of  humour." 

She  looked  up  at  his  face  wondering.  There  had 
been  strange  lost  things  for  which  she  had  prayed 
to  St.  Anthony — things  to  which  only  a  woman  can 
act  as  valuer.  But  to  pray  for  a  lost  sense  of  hu- 
mour.    She  touched  the  hand  that  he  put  out. 

"  You're  very  funny,"  she  said  gently — "  You're 
very  quaint.  Do  you  think  you'll  find  the  sense  of 
humour  again?  " 

"  I've  found  it,"  said  John. 

"Already.?" 

"  Yes — already."    One  eye  lifted  to  St.  Anthony. 

Then  he  told  her  about  the  hawker  and  that  rare, 
that  valuable  coin — the  English  penny — and  in  two 
minutes,  they  were  laughing  with  their  heads  in  their 
hands. 

This  is  not  a  reverent  thing  to  do  in  a  church. 
The  least  that  you  can  offer,  is  to  hide  your  face,  or, 
turning  quickly  to  the  burial  service  in  the  prayer- 
book — granted  that  you  understand  Latin — read 
that.  Failing  that  of  burial,  the  service  of  matri- 
mony will  do  just  as  well. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    259 

But  before  the  image  of  St.  Anthony,  to  whom 
you  have  been  praying  for  a  lost  gift  of  laughter — 
well,  you  may  be  sure  that  St.  Anthony  will  excuse 
it.  After  all,  it  is  only  a  compliment  to  his  powers ; 
and  the  quality  of  saintliness,  being  nothing  without 
its  relation  to  humanity,  must  surely  argue  some 
little  weakness  somewhere.  What  better  then  than 
the  pride  that  is  pardonable? 

At  length,  when  she  had  answered  all  his  ques- 
tions, when  he  had  answered  all  hers,  they  rose  re- 
luctantly to  their  feet. 

"  I  must  go  back  to  them,"  she  said  regretfully. 

"  But  I  shall  see  you  again.'*  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  Does  Mrs.  Crossthwaite  know  that  you  have 
seen  me.'' " 

"  Yes.  Her  husband  doesn't.  He  wouldn't  un- 
derstand." 

John  smiled. 

"  Men  never  do,"  said  he.  "  They  have  too  keen 
a  sense  of  what  is  wrong  for  other  people.  When 
shall  I  see  you.?  " 

"  This  afternoon." 

"Where.?" 

"  Anywhere "  she  paused. 

"  You  were  going  to  say  something,"  said  John 
quickly.     "What  is  it?" 

She  looked  away.  In  the  scheme  of  this  world's 
anomalies,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  duty  to  one- 
self. They  have  not  thought  it  wise  to  write  it  in 
the  catechism,  for  truly  it  is  but  capable  of  so  in- 
definite a  rendering  into  language,  that  it  would  be 


260    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

only  dangerous  to  set  it  forth.  For  language,  after 
all,  is  merely  a  sound  box,  full  of  words,  in  the  noisy 
rattling  of  which,  the  finer  expression  of  all  thought 
is  lost. 

But  a  thousand  times,  Jill  had  thought  of  It — 
that  duty.  Its  phrases  form  quite  readily  in  the 
mind;  they  construct  themselves  with  ease;  the 
words  flow  merrily. 

Why,  she  had  asked  herself,  should  she  sacrifice 
her  happiness  to  the  welfare  of  those  who  had 
brought  her  into  the  world?  What  claim  had  they 
upon  her,  who  had  never  questioned  her  as  to  a  de- 
sire for  existence? 

All  this  is  so  simply  said.  Its  justice  is  so  pal- 
pably apparent.  And  if  she  had  gained  nothing 
herself  by  the  transaction,  it  would  have  been  so 
easy  of  following.  But  the  mere  knowledge  that 
she  stood  to  win  the  very  heart  of  her  desire  at  the 
cost  of  some  others'  welfare,  filled  her  with  the  ap- 
prehension that  she  was  only  inventing  this  duty  of 
self  for  her  own  gratification,  as  a  narcotic  to  the 
sleeplessness  of  her  own  conscience. 

The  education  of  the  sex  has  so  persistently 
driven  out  egotism  from  their  natures,  that  the 
woman  who  finds  paramount  the  importance  of  her- 
self, has  but  a  small  place  in  this  modern  commu- 
nity. 

Fast  in  her  very  blood,  was  bred  in  Jill  that  com- 
plete annihilation  of  selfishness,  that  absolute  aban- 
donment to  Destiny.  Strive  as  she  might,  she  could 
not  place  her  own  desires  before  the  needs  of  her 
father  and  mother;  she  could  not  see  the  first  essen- 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    26l 

tial  of  happiness  in  that  gain  to  herself  which  would 
crush  the  prospects  of  her  brother  Ronald. 

To  such  women  as  these — and  notwithstanding 
the  advent  of  the  tradeswoman  into  the  sex,  there 
are  many — to  be  able  to  give  all,  is  their  embarrass- 
ment of  riches,  to  withhold  nothing  is  their  concep- 
tion of  wealth. 

In  the  ideal  which  she  had  formed  of  John,  Jill 
knew  that  he  was  possessed  of  more  in  himself,  than 
ever  would  be  the  bounty  bequeathed  to  those  three 
people  dependent  upon  her  generosity.  And  so,  she 
had  given  her  consent  of  marriage  to  one,  whom  she 
might  have  valued  as  a  friend,  whom,  as  a  man,  she 
respected  in  every  way,  but  who  well,  since  brevity 
is  invaluable — ^like  poor  St.  Joseph,  had  a  brown 
beard. 

All  this,  in  the  pause  that  had  followed  John's 
question,  had  passed  for  the  thousandth  time 
through  Jill's  mind,  bringing  her  inevitably  once 
more  to  the  realisation  of  her  duty  to  others.  And 
when  he  pressed  her  again,  offering,  not  perhaps 
the  penny  for  her  thoughts,  but  an  equivalent,  just 
as  valuable  as  that  most  valuable  of  coins,  the  prom- 
ise of  his  eyes,  she  shook  her  head. 

*'  Ah,  but  you  were  going  to  say  something ! "  he 
pleaded. 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  you,"  said  she,  "  if  you 
would  take  me  to  see  your  people."  She  hesitated. 
"  I — I  want  to  have  tea  with  thera  out  of  the  little 
blue  and  white  cups  with  no  handles.  I  want  to  go 
and  buy  lace  with  the  little  old  white-haired  lady 
in  the  arcades." 


262     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

He  seized  her  hand  so  that  she  winced. 

*'  You've  not  forgotten !  You  shall  come  this 
afternoon."  And  there,  with  a  smile,  she  left  him, 
still  standing  by  the  silent  image  of  St.  Anthony ; 
and,  gratitude  being  that  part  of  prayer  which  be- 
longs to  the  heart  and  has  nothing  in  common  with 
delay,  John  knelt  down  again.  When  Jill  looked 
back  over  her  shoulder,  his  head  was  buried  in  his 
hands. 

The  little  old  white-haired  lady  was  waiting  over 
the  mid-day  meal  for  him  when  he  returned.  His 
father  had  taken  his  food  and  gone  out  again,  leav- 
ing her  alone  to  keep  John  company.  She  was  sit- 
ting patiently  there  at  the  head  of  the  table  and, 
by  the  side  of  her  empty  plate,  stood  a  small  bottle 
containing  white  pills,  over  which  she  hurriedly  laid 
her  hand  as  he  entered. 

But  clever  as  they  are.  In  their  cunning,  childish 
ways,  old  people  lose  all  the  superior  craft  of  deceit. 
They  go  back  to  childhood  when  they  imagine  that 
once  a  thing  is  hidden,  it  is  out  of  sight.  That  is 
not  at  all  the  case.  There  comes  a  moment  when  it  is 
too  late  to  conceal;  when  curiosity  will  bring  the 
hidden  thing  twice  vividly  before  the  eyes.  Under 
the  very  nose  of  John,  was  the  best  place  for  that 
secret  bottle  of  pills,  had  she  needed  it  not  to  be 
seen. 

As  it  was,  his  eyes  travelled  more  quickly  than 
her  hand.  She  made  a  gentle  little  effort  to  hide 
her  concern  as  well.  She  smiled  up  at  him,  asking 
where  he  had  been.  But  it  would  not  do.  The  child 
is  parent  to  the  man,  he  is  parent  to  the  woman 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    263 

too — a  stern  parent,  moreover,  who  will  brook  no 
simple  trifling  with  his  authority,  who  overlooks 
nothing  and  whose  judgments  are  the  blind  record 
of  an  implacable  justice.  John  could  not  let  that 
little  deception  pass.  Instead  of  answering  her 
question,  instead  of  taking  his  place  at  the  table,  he 
came  to  her  side  and  put  one  arm  gently  round  her 
neck. 

"  What  are  you  hiding,  dearest  ?  "  he  asked. 

Like  a  child,  who  is  discovered  in  the  act  of  nefari- 
ous negotiations  with  the  good  things  of  this  world, 
she  quietly  took  her  hand  away.  There  stood  the 
innocent  little  bottle  in  all  its  nakedness.  John 
stared  at  it  questioningly — then  at  his  mother. 

"  Is  it  something  that  you  have  to  take,  dearest  ?  " 
he  asked.     "  Aren't  you  well  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  I'm  quite  well,"  she  said,  and  she  played 
nervously  with  the  cork  in  the  little  bottle.  It  was 
a  delicate  subject.  She  began  to  wish  that  she  had 
never  embarked  upon  it  at  all.  But  faith  brings 
with  it  a  rare  quality  of  courage,  and  so  firmly  did 
she  believe,  with  the  quaint  simplicity  of  her  heart, 
in  the  course  she  had  determined  to  adopt,  that  the 
wish  broke  like  a  bubble  on  the  moment. 

*'  Well,  what  is  in  the  bottle  ?  "  persisted  John. 

"  Ignatia." 

There  was  just  the  faintness  of  a  whisper  in  her 
voice.  She  had  not  found  full  courage  as  yet.  Even 
in  their  firmest  beliefs,  old  people  are  pursued  by  the 
fear  of  being  thought  foolish.  The  new  generation 
always  frightens  them ;  it  knows  so  much  more  than 
they. 


264,    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Ignatia?  "  John  repeated. 

"  Yes — I — I  want  you  to  take  it." 

She  began  uncorking  the  bottle. 

"Me?    What  for.?     I'm  all  right.     I'm  not  ill." 

"  No — but "  she  paused. 

"But  what.?" 

"  It'll  do  you  good.     Try  it,  to  please  me." 

She  hid  her  white  head  against  his  coat. 

"  But  what  for,  dearest.?  " 

*' Have  you  never  heard  of  Ignatia.?"  she  asked. 

John  shook  his  head. 

"  It's  a  plant.  It's  a  homeopathic  medicine.  It's 
a  cure  for  all  sorts  of  things.  People  take  it  when 
their  nerves  are  bad,  for  worry,  for  insomnia.  It's 
a  cure  for  trouble  when — when  you're  in  love." 

She  said  it  so  simply,  in  such  fear  that  he  would 
laugh ;  but  when  he  looked  down  and  found  the  hope- 
fulness in  her  eyes,  laughter  was  impossible.  He 
caught  it  back,  but  his  nostrils  quivered. 

"  And  do  you  want  to  cure  me  of  being  in  love?  " 
he  asked  with  a  straightened  face. 

"  I  thought  you'd  be  happier,  my  dear,  if  you 
could  get  over  it." 

"  So  you  recommend  Ignatia?  " 

"  I've  known  it  do  wonders,"  she  asserted.  "  Poor 
Claudina  was  very  much  in  love  with  a  worthless 
fellow — Tina — one  of  the  gondolieri — surely  you  re- 
member him.    He  lived  on  the  Giudecca." 

John  nodded  smiling.  • 

*'  Well,  she  came  to  me  one  day,  crying  her  heart 
out.  She  declared  she  vm5  in  love  with  the  most 
worthless  man  in  the  whole  of  Venice.    *  Get  over  it 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    265 

then,  Claudina,'  I  said.  But  she  assured  me  that  it 
was  impossible.  He  had  only  to  put  up  his  little 
finger,  she  said  and  she  had  to  go  to  his  beckoning, 
if  only  to  tell  him  how  worthless  she  thought  he 
was.  Well — I  prescribed  Ignatia,  and  she  was  cured 
of  it  in  a  week.  She  laughs  when  she  talks  about 
him  now." 

John  was  forced  to  smile,  but  as  quickly  it  died 
away. 

"  And  is  that  what  you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  he  asked. 
*'  Do  you  want  me  to  be  able  to  laugh  when  I  talk 
about  the  lady  of  St.  Joseph.?  You'd  be  as  sorry 
as  I  should,  if  I  did.  It  would  hurt  you  as  much  as 
it  would  me." 

"  Then  you  won't  take  it,  John  ?  "  She  looked 
up  imploringly  into  his  face. 

*'  No — no  charms  or  potions  for  me.  Besides — " 
he  bent  down  close  to  her  ear — "  the  lady  of  St. 
Joseph  is  in  Venice.  She's  coming  to  see  you  this 
afternoon." 

With  a  little  cry  of  delight,  she  threw  the  bottle 
of  Ignatia  down  upon  the  table  and  caught  his  face 
in  her  trembling  hands. 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

THE   SACRIFICE 

A  BELIEF  in  Ignatia  argues  a  ready  disposition  for 
Romance. 

The  mind  of  the  little  old  white-haired  lady  be- 
longed to  that  period  when  love  was  a  visitation 
only  to  be  cured  by  the  use  of  simples,  herbs,  and 
magic.  She  called  the  treatment — homeopathic. 
It  was  her  gentle  way  of  assuring  herself  that  she 
marched  bravely  with  the  times ;  that  the  super- 
stition of  the  Middle-Ages  had  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  it. 

This  is  all  very  well;  but  there  is  no  such  scien- 
tific name  for  the  portents  told  by  the  flight  of  a 
magpie;  you  cannot  take  shelter  behind  fine-sound- 
ing words  when  you  admit  to  the  good  fortune 
brought  by  a  black  cat ;  there  is  no  marching  with 
the  times  for  you,  if  you  are  impelled  to  throw  salt 
over  your  left  shoulder.  You  are  not  stepping  it 
with  the  new  generation  then.  And  all  these  things 
were  essentials  in  the  life  of  the  little  old  white- 
haired  lady.  Certainly  there  were  no  flights  of  mag- 
pies over  the  tiny  Italian  garden  at  the  back  of  the 
Palazzo  Capello  to  disturb  the  peace  of  her  mind 
with  joyous  or  terrible  prognostications.  But  the 
resources  of  an  old  lady's  suspicions  are  not  ex- 
hausted in  a  flight  of  magpies.  Oh,  no!  She  has 
many  more  expedients  than  that. 

866 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    267 

The  very  day  before  John's  announcement  of  the 
advent  of  the  lady  of  St.  Joseph  to  Venice,  she  had 
seen  the  new  moon,  a  slim  silver  sickle,  over  her  right 
shoulder.  There  is  good  omen  in  that.  She  had 
gone  to  bed  the  happier  because  of  it.  What  it  be- 
tokened, it  was  not  in  the  range  of  her  knowledge 
at  the  time  to  conceive.  Destiny,  in  these  matters, 
as  in  many  others,  is  not  so  outspoken  as  it  might 
be.  But  immediately  John  told  her,  she  remembered 
that  little  slip  of  a  moon.  Then  this  was  what  it 
had  heralded — the  coming  of  the  lady  of  St.  Joseph. 

As  soon  as  their  meal  was  finished,  John  went  out 
to  the  Piazza,  the  meeting  place  which  he  had  ar- 
ranged with  Jill,  leaving  his  mother  and  Claudina 
to  make  all  preparations  for  his  return.  How  fast 
the  heart  of  the  little  old  white-haired  lady  beat 
then,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  She  was  as  excited 
as  when  Claudina  put  the  treasures  away  to  bed  in 
their  night-caps.  Her  little  brown  eyes  sparkled, 
for  a  party  to  old  people  is  much  the  same  as  is  a 
party  to  a  child.  The  preparations  for  it  are  the 
whirlwind  that  carries  the  imagination  into  the  vor- 
tex of  the  event.  And  this,  for  which  she  was  get- 
ting ready,  was  all  illuminated  with  the  halo  of 
Romance. 

Sometimes,  perhaps,  a  wave  of  jealousy  would 
bring  the  blood  warmly  to  her  cheeks.  Supposing 
the  lady  of  St.  Joseph  was  not  equal  to  her  expec- 
tations .!*  Supposing  she  did  not  fulfil  her  hopes 
and  demands  of  the  woman  whom  she  had  destined 
in  her  mind  to  be  the  wife  of  her  son?  How  could 
she  tell  him.'*    How  could  she  warn  him  that  he  was 


268     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

unwise?  How  could  she  show  him  that  the  woman 
he  loved  was  unworthy  of  him?  It  would  be  a  dif- 
ficult task  to  accomplish ;  but  her  lips  set  tight  at 
the  thought  of  it.  She  would  shirk  no  duty  so  grave 
or  serious  as  that. 

Yet  all  these  fears,  with  an  effort,  she  put  away 
from  her.  A  generous  sense  of  justice  told  her  that 
she  might  judge  when  she  had  seen,  so  she  sent  out 
Claudina  when  everything  was  ready,  to  buy  some 
cakes  at  Lavena's  and,  stealing  into  her  bedroom, 
knelt  down  before  the  little  altar  at  her  bedside. 

There,  some  ten  minutes  later,  her  husband  found 
her.  It  was  not  her  custom  to  pray  at  that  time 
of  the  afternoon,  unless  for  some  special  request 
and,  for  a  moment,  he  stood  in  silence,  watching  the 
white  head  buried  in  the  pathetically  twisted  hands, 
the  faint  rays  of  the  little  coloured  lamp  before  the 
image  shining  through  the  silken  silver  of  her  hair. 

When  at  last,  she  raised  her  head  and  found  him 
standing  there,  a  smile  crept  into  her  eyes.  She 
beckoned  to  him  silently  to  come  to  her,  and  when 
he  reached  her  side,  she  pulled  him  gently  to  his 
knees. 

*'  What  is  it  ?  "  he  whispered. 

**I'm  praying  for  John,"  she  whispered  back,  for 
when  you  kneel  before  an  altar,  even  if  it  is  only 
rough-made  out  of  an  old  box,  as  was  this,  you  are 
in  a  chapel;  you  are  in  a  cathedral;  you  are  at 
the  very  feet  of  God  Himself  and  you  must  speak 
low. 

"  What  about  him  ?  "  he  whispered  again. 

She  put  her  dear  lips  close  to  his  ear  with  its 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    269 

tuft  of  white  hair  growing  stiffly  on  the  lobe,  an5 
she  whispered: 

"  The  lady  of  St.  Joseph  is  in  Venice.  She's 
coming  to  tea  this  afternoon." 

And  then,  looking  round  over  his  shoulder,  to  see 
that  he  had  closed  the  door — ^because  old  gentlemen 
are  sensitive  about  these  things — his  arm  slipped 
round  her  neck  and  both  their  heads  bent  together. 
It  was,  after  all,  their  own  lives  they  were  praying 
for.  Every  prayer  that  is  offered,  every  prayer 
that  is  granted,  is  really  for  the  benefit  of  the  whole 
world. 

What  they  prayed  for — ^how  they  prayed;  what 
quaint  little  sentences  shaped  themselves  in  her 
mind,  what  fine  phrases  rolled  in  his,  it  is  beyond 
power  to  say.  Certain  it  is  that  a  woman  comes 
before  her  God  in  all  the  simplest  garments  of  her 
faith,  while  a  man  still  carries  his  dignity  well  hung 
upon  the  shoulder. 

Presently,  they  rose  together  and  went  into  the 
other  room.  Everything  was  in  readiness.  The  blue 
and  white  cups  were  smiling  in  their  saucers ;  the 
brass  kettle  was  beginning  its  tempting  song  upon 
the  spirit  stove. 

"  Do  you  like  my  cap  ? "  asked  the  little  old 
white-haired  lady  and,  looking  down  to  see  if  his 
waistcoat  was  not  too  creased,  the  old  gentleman 
said  that  it  was  the  daintiest  cap  that  he  had  ever 
seen. 

"  Poor  John  will  be  very  shy,"  she  continued,  as 
she  sat  down  and  tried  to  fold  her  hands  in  her 
lap  as  though  she  were  at  ease. 


270     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"John!  shy!" 

The  old  gentleman  laughed  at  the  idea  of  it  and 
kissed  her  wrinkled  cheek  to  hide  his  excitement. 
John,  shy!  He  remembered  the  days  of  his  own 
love-making.  He  had  never  been  shy.  It  was  like 
an  accusation  against  himself.  Besides,  what  woman 
worth  her  salt  would  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
love-making  of  a  man  who  was  shy.''  John,  shy! 
He  straightened  his  waistcoat  for  the  second 
time,  because  it  was  getting  near  the  moment  of 
their  arrival,  the  kettle  was  nearly  boiling,  and  he 
was  beginning  to  feel  just  a  little  bit  embarrassed. 

"  Did  John  say  when  they  were  going  to  be  mar- 
ried? "  he  asked  presently. 

"  Oh,  but  you  mustn't  say  that  to  him !  "  she  cried 
out  quickly.  "  Why,  he  told  me  that  he  would  never 
see  her  again.  He  said  that  they  were  friends — just 
friends.  But  d'you  think  I  can't  guess !  Why  has 
she  come  to  Venice.''  She  must  have  known  he  was 
here.    Oh,  he'll  tell  nothing  about  it.    We  must  just 

treat  her  as  if  she  were  a  friend.     But "  She 

shook  her  head  knowingly,  not  caring  to  finish  her 
sentence. 

Of  course,  she  guessed  it  all — their  meeting  in 
the  chapel — their  meeting  in  Kensington  Gardens  I 
A  young  man  and  a  young  woman  do  not  meet 
like  that,  unless  it  be  that  there  is  some  good 
reason  for  it.  Besides — that  last  candle!  What 
woman  could  fail  to  fall  in  love  with  a  man,  who 
had  thought  of  such  a  gentle  consideration  as 
that,  even  letting  alone  the  fact  that  that  man  was 
her  son?    There  are  some  things  in  this  world  which 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    271 

ft  woman  knows  and  it  Is  not  the  faintest  use  trying 
to  contradict  her.  To  begin  with,  she  is  bound  to 
be  right,  and  secondly,  if  it  were  possible  to  prove 
her  wrong,  it  would  only  convince  her  the  more  firmly 
of  her  opinion. 

The  old  lady  knew  quite  well  what  she  was  talking 
about.  These  two  were  as  fondly  in  love  with  each 
other  as  it  was  possible  for  them  to  be.  Their 
meeting  here  in  Venice,  after  John  had  assured  her 
that  they  were  never  going  to  see  each  other  again, 
was  all  the  proof  that  she  needed  of  it.  And  with 
this  knowledge  held  firmly  in  the  heart  of  her,  she 
was  already  pre-disposed  to  see  those  signs  by  which, 
in  spite  of  all  their  cleverness,  two  people  are  bound 
in  this  predicament  to  show  their  hands. 

At  last  the  bell  clanged  loudly.  Its  jangling 
hammered  like  echoes  beating  to  and  fro  against 
the  walls  of  their  hearts.  The  old  lady  set  straight 
her  cap  for  the  twentieth  time ;  for  the  twentieth 
time,  the  old  gentleman  pulled  down  his  waistcoat, 
then  he  crept  to  the  door  and  looked  out  into  the 
big  room. 

**  Claudina's  going ! "  he  whispered  back  over  his 
shoulder.  "  She's  opened  the  door.  Yes — ^it's 
John ! » 

He  came  back  quickly  to  his  seat  and  there,  when 
the  two  visitors  entered,  they  were  sitting  opposite 
to  each  other,  quite  placidly,  quite  calmly,  as  though 
there  were  nothing  left  to  happen  in  the  world.  Yet 
I  doubt  if  four  hearts  ever  beat  so  quickly  beneath 
such  quiet  exteriors  as  these. 

"  This  is  Miss  Dealtry,"  said  John — in  much  the 


272    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

same  tone  of  voice  as  when  he  had  told  the  cabman 
to  drive  to  the  opera. 

The  old  gentleman  had  risen  from  his  chair  and, 
coming  forward,  with  that  air — it  is  the  air  of  cour- 
tesy— which  makes  a  woman  feel  a  queen,  if  she  is 
only  a  washerwoman,  he  took  her  hand,  bowed  low 
as  he  gently  shook  it  and  then,  drawing  her  further 
into  the  room,  he  bowed  solemnly  again. 

"  My  wife,"  said  he,  just  catching  the  last  note 
from  the  tone  of  John's  voice. 

The  little  old  white-haired  lady  held  out  her  hands 
and,  as  Jill  saw  the  tortured,  twisted  fingers,  her 
heart  shuddered  in  pity.  But  before  that  shudder 
could  be  seen,  she  had  bent  down  and  kissed  the 
wrinkled  face  that  was  lifted  up  to  hers  and  from 
that  moment,  these  two  loved  each  other. 

With  women,  these  things  are  spontaneous.  A 
woman  will  go  through  the  play  of  pretending  to 
kiss  another;  she  will  put  forward  her  cheek,  mutter 
an  affectionate  word  and  kiss  the  air  with  her  lips. 
No  one  is  deceived  by  it.  The  lookers-on  know  quite 
well  that  these  two  must  hate  each  other.  The 
actors  know  it  perfectly  well  themselves.  But  once 
the  lips  of  two  women  meet,  their  hearts  go  with  the 
touching. 

From  the  instant  that  the  lips  of  the  little  old 
lady  touched  Jill's,  there  was  sealed  a  bond.  They 
both  loved  John,  and  in  that  kiss  they  both  admitted 
it.  The  mother  wanted  no  further  proof  than  this. 
Then  all  jealousy  vanished.  With  that  kiss,  she 
made  the  mother's  sacrifice,  the  sacrifice  which  is  the 
last  that  the  incessant  demands   of  nature  makes 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    273 

upon  her  sex.  She  gave  up  the  love  of  her  son  into 
the  keeping  of  another  woman.  And  when  Jill  stood 
up  again,  the  old  lady's  heart  had  died  down  to  a 
quiet,  faint  measure,  fainter  perhaps  a  little  than 
it  had  been  before.  Her  life  was  finished.  There 
was  only  left  the  waiting  and  her  eyes,  still  bright, 
Bought  John's,  but  found  them  fixed  on  Jill. 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

THE    DEPARTURE— VENICE 

Before  that  little  tea  party  was  over,  these  two 
old  people  had  won  the  heart  of  Jill.  For  all  the 
world,  they  were  like  two  children,  making  believe 
with  the  most  serious  things  in  life.  Like  children, 
they  looked  at  each  other  in  surprise  when  anything 
happened,  or  when  anything  was  said.  Like  chil- 
dren, they  laughed  or  were  intensely  earnest  over 
their  game.  Like  children,  it  seemed  as  if  they  were 
playing  at  being  old,  he,  with  his  nodding  of  the 
head,  she,  with  her  crumpled  figure  and  withered 
hands. 

Sometimes  at  a  thing  that  John  would  say,  they 
would  look  at  each  other  and  smile.  It  had  re- 
minded them  of  something  far  back  in  the  years  of 
which  neither  John  nor  Jill  knew  anything.  And 
in  this  again,  they  were  like  children,  upon  whose 
faces  one  may  sometimes  trace  a  distant  look  of 
memory — a  look  that  is  very  marvellous  and  very 
wise — as  though  they  were  gazing  back  into  the 
heart  of  Time  from  which  the  hand  of  destiny  has 
brought  them. 

Yet  it  was  not  only  this — this  charm  of  wonderful 
simplicity — but  that  whenever  Jill  looked  up,  she 
found  their  eyes  resting  tenderly  on  her.  It  seemed 
—she  did  not  understand  why  just  then — as  though 

274, 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    275 

they  were  trying  mutely  to  tell  her  how  fond  of  her 
they  were. 

Then,  when  the  old  gentleman  handed  her  her  cup 
of  tea,  she  recognised  from  the  description,  the  china 
of  blue  and  white  and  turned  with  a  smile  to  John. 

"  Aren't  these  the  cups  ?  "  she  asked  gently. 

He  nodded  his  head  and  tried  to  smile,  too.  The 
old  lady  watched  those  smiles.  Her  eyes  never  left 
them  for  a  moment. 

"  I've  been  told  about  these  cups,"  Jill  explained 
to  the  others.  "  Your  son  told  me  one  day  when — 
when  he  was  giving  me  a  description  of  where  you 
Hved." 

"  That's  the  real  Chinese  cobalt,"  said  the  old 
gentleman.     "  John  told  you  that  of  course." 

"  Well — no — they  were  not  described  in  detail — 
at  least "  suddenly  she  found  the  blood  mount- 
ing to  her  cheeks.  "  I — I  knew  that  they  had  no 
handles." 

Why  did  she  blush?  The  little  old  lady  had  not 
failed  to  see  that  sudden  flame  of  colour.  Why  did 
she  blush.?  Something  she  had  remembered?  Some- 
thing that  John  had  said?  She  looked  quickly  at 
her  son.     His  eyes  were  bent  on  Jill. 

Oh,  yes,  they  loved.  There  was  no  fear  of  her 
mistaking  that.  There  was  a  secret  between  them; 
a  secret  that  had  set  free  a  flood  of  colour  to  Jill's 
cheeks,  that  had  brought  a  look  of  fixed  intent  into 
John's  eyes.  What  other  could  such  secret  be  be- 
tween a  boy  and  girl,  than  love?  No  one  can  keep 
it ;  but  it  is  the  greatest  secret  in  the  world. 

Before  the  tea  was  over,  they  had  betrayed  it  in 


276    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

a  thousand  different  ways  to  the  sharp,  bright  eyes 
of  the  little  old  white-haired  lady.  When  vying 
with  John  to  do  honour  to  their  guest,  the  old  gen- 
tleman persuaded  .Jill  to  take  from  the  plate  he 
proffered,  then  she  bent  her  head  and  smiled  to  see 
her  husband's  pride  and  poor  John's  discomfiture. 

"  She  loves  him !  She  loves  him !  "  she  whispered 
in  her  heart.  "  She  is  the  very  woman  for  my 
John ! " 

"  A  charming  little  girl,"  whispered  the  old  man's 
vanity,  as  he  proudly  bore  the  plate  back  to  the 
table.  "  Exactly  the  woman  I  would  have  chosen 
for  John  myself." 

And  John  was  disconsolately  wondering  why,  if 
she  loved  him,  Jill  had  so  patently  refused  his 
offering. 

Why  had  she  refused?  The  little  old  white-haired 
lady  knew  that.  She  wanted  to  please  his  father, 
because  she  loved  John.  That  was  their  secret.  How 
it  affected  the  blue  and  white  china,  she  could  not 
guess ;  but  that  was  their  secret — they  loved. 

Only  by  exercising  the  greatest  control  over  her- 
self, could  she  refrain  from  drawing  her  aside  and 
telling  Jill  all  she  had  seen,  all  she  had  guessed,  and 
all  she  hoped. 

Presently,  without  seeking  for  it,  the  opportu- 
nity presented  itself.  They  had  been  eating  little 
jam  sandwiches — jam  sandwiches,  which  Claudina 
knew  how  to  cut  so  thin,  that  the  bread  was  almost 
threadbare,  and  looked  as  if  it  wanted  darning. 
They  melted  in  your  mouth,  but  then,  they  made 
your  fingers   sticky.      Jill  looked  ruefully   at  hers 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    277 

when  the  tea  was  over.  Holding  them  away  from 
her  at  arm's  length,  she  made  a  little  grimace.  When 
one  was  young,  one's  mouth  was  the  best,  the  quick- 
est, the  most  approved-of  remedy  for  these  matters. 
She  might  have  wished  she  were  a  child  then,  but 
wishing  was  all.  She  asked  to  be  allowed  to  wash 
them. 

"  You  will  come  into  my  room,  dear,"  said  the  lit- 
tle old  lady  eagerly,  and  away  she  led  her,  where 
John  could  not  hope  to  follow. 

Ah,  then  she  was  cunning,  when  once  she  had  her 
alone!  What  subtle  little  compliments  she  paid! 
You  would  scarcely  believe  how  cunning  she  could 
be. 

"That  is  your  little  altar?"  said  Jill,  when  she 
had  dried  her  hands.  As  she  walked  across  to  it, 
the  old  lady  took  her  arm.  It  needed  but  little  ma- 
nipulation from  there  to  slip  her  hand  into  Jill's.  It 
needed  but  little  management  to  show  her  in  a  hun- 
dred tender  ways  as  she  clung  to  her  for  support, 
that  she  found  her  very  dear,  very  loveable. 

The  hearts  of  women  are  responsive  things. 
When  there  is  sjrmpathy  between  them,  they  touch 
and  answer,  as  though  some  current  united  them, 
as  well  indeed  it  may. 

So  gentle,  so  expressive  were  those  simple  signs 
that  passed  between  Jill  and  the  little  old  white- 
haired  lady,  that  Jill  was  stricken  in  conscience, 
realising  all  that  they  meant  and  wondering,  almost 
guiltily,  what  they  would  think  of  her  if  they  knew. 
They  must  never  know.  She  could  not  bear  the 
thought   that   these  two   old  people,   far  away   in 


278     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

Venice  as  they  might  be,  should  hold  in  their  hearts 
anything  but  the  affection  which  they  were  showing 
to  her  then. 

"  I  was  praying  here  just  before  you  came,"  said 
the  little    old  lady  in  a  whisper. 

Jill  pressed  the  withered  hand. 

*' Do  you  know  what  I  was  praying  for.?" 

A  sudden  fear  seized  Jill.  She  felt  her  forehead 
cold. 

"  No "   she   tried   to   smile — "  How   could   I 

know?  " 

"  I  was  praying  for  John."  She  looked  up  simply 
into  Jill's  face.  "  He's  such  a  dear  boy,  you  don't 
know.  Look  at  the  way  he  comes  every  year  to  see 
us — all  the  way  from  London.  I  wonder  would  any 
other  son  do  as  much.     Do  you  think  they  would?  " 

She  asked  the  question  as  naively  as  if,  were  there 
any  doubt  about  it,  she  really  would  like  to  know. 
You  might  have  known  there  was  no  doubt  in  her 
mind. 

Before  that  little  altar  then,  was  a  dangerous 
place  to  discuss  such  subjects.  Jill  drew  her  gently 
away  towards  the  door. 

"  Do  you  think  there  are  any  other  sons  have 
such  a  mother  ?  "  she  said.  *'  Why  don't  you  ask 
yourself  that  question  ?  " 

The  little  old  lady  looked  up  with  a  twinkle  in  her 
eyes.  "  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  understand  it  bet- 
ter that  way,"  she  answered.  "  Besides — it's  easy  to 
be  a  mother.  You  have  only  to  have  a  son.  It's  not 
so  easy  to  be  a  son,  because  you  need  more  than  a 
mother  for  that." 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    279 

Jill  looked  at  her  tenderly,  then  bent  and  kissed 
her  cheek. 

"  I  think  John's  very  like  you,"  she  whispered. 
She  could  not  keep  it  back.  And  that  was  as  much  as 
the  little  old  white-haired  lady  wanted ;  that  was  all 
she  had  been  playing  for.  With  her  head  high  in 
triumph,  she  walked  back  with  Jill  to  join  the  others. 

Soon  afterwards  Jill  declared  she  must  go;  that 
her  friends  would  be  waiting  for  her. 

"  But    when "    the    old    people    began    in    a 

breath,  then  stopped  together. 

**  You  say,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  gentleman — "  I 
can  wait." 

Oh,  no — she  would  not  hear  of  it.  He  began  first. 
Let  him  say  what  he  wanted  to.  He  shook  his  head 
and  bowed.  John  caught  Jill's  eye  and  they  held 
their  laughter. 

"  Then  when "  they  both  began  again  to- 
gether and  this  time,  they  finished  out  their  sentence 
— "  are  we  going  to  see  you  again  ?  " 

We  share  the  same  thoughts  when  we  know  each 
other  well.  But  life  runs  along  in  its  separate  chan- 
nels with  most  people.  They  may  be  many  years 
beneath  the  shadow  of  one  roof,  yet  for  all  they 
know  of  each  other,  they  might  live  at  opposite 
ends  of  the  earth,  so  little  is  it  given  to  human  be- 
ings to  understand  humanity;  so  little  do  people 
study  it  except  in  the  desires  which  are  in  them- 
selves. 

In  these  two  old  people,  it  was  quite  charming 
to  see  one  standing  out  of  the  way  to  let  the  other 
pass  on,  as  if  they  both  were  going  in  vastly  dif- 


280    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

ferent  directions,  and  then,  to  find  that  one  was  but 
speaking  the  other's  thoughts. 

They  all  laughed,  but  their  laughter  died  away 
again  when  Jill  announced  that  in  two  days  she 
was  leaving  Venice  for  Milan,  passing  through  the 
Italian  lakes  on  her  way  back  to  England. 

"  You  only  stay  three  days !  "  exclaimed  the  little 
old  lady,  and  she  looked  quickly  at  John.  But  John 
had  known  of  it.  There  was  no  surprise  in  his  face. 
He  breathed  deeply ;  looked  away  out  of  the  win- 
dow over  the  old  Italian  garden — that  was  all. 

They  made  her  promise  to  come  the  next  day  to 
lunch — to  tea  again  if  she  would — to  stay  with  them 
the  whole  day.  John  looked  to  her  appealingly  for 
her  answer. 

"  But  I  can't  leave  my  friends  all  that  time,"  she 
said  reluctantly.  "  I'll  come  to  lunch — I'll  try  and 
stay  to  tea.     I  can't  do  more  than  that." 

Then  John  took  her  down  to  her  gondola.  In  the 
archway,  before  they  stepped  on  to  the  fondamentay 
he  took  her  arm  and  held  her  near  him. 

"  You're  sure  it's  too  late.''  "  he  said  hoarsely,  be- 
low his  breath.  "  You're  sure  that  there  is  nothing 
I  could  do  to  make  things  different — to  make  them 
possible?  " 

She  clung  to  him  quietly.  In  the  darkness,  her 
eyes  searched  impenetrable  depths ;  stared  to  the 
furthest  horizons  of  chance,  yet  saw  nothing  beyond 
the  track  of  many  another  woman's  life  before  her. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  she  whispered — "  Oh,  I  should 
never  have  come !  I  should  never  have  seen  these 
two  wonderful  old  people  of  yours.     Now  I  know 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    281 

all  that  the  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense  meant.  You 
very  nearly  made  them  real  to  me  that  day  in  Fet- 
ter Lane ;  but  now  I  know  them.  Oh,  I  don't  wonder 
that  you  love  them !  I  don't  wonder  that  you  would 
come  every  year — year  after  year  to  see  them!  If 
only  my  mother  and  father  were  like  that,  how  dif- 
ferent all  of  it  would  be  then." 

"  You  haven't  the  courage  to  break  away  from  it 
all.? "  asked  John  quietly — "  to  make  these  old 
people  of  mine — to  make  them  yours.  If  I  couldn't 
support  you  over  in  London,  you  could  live  with 
them  here,  and  I  would  do  as  much  of  my  work  here 
as  possible." 

Jill  looked  steadily  into  his  eyes. 

*'  Do  you  think  I  should  be  happy  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Would  you  be  happy  if,  to  marry  me,  you  had  to 
give  up  them?  Wouldn't  their  faces  haunt  you  in 
the  most  perfect  moments  of  your  happiness? 
Wouldn't  his  eyes  follow  you  in  everything  you  did? 
Wouldn't  those  poor  withered  hands  of  hers  be  al- 
ways pulling  feebly  at  your  heart?  And  if  you 
thought  that  they  were  poor ?  " 

"  They  are,"  said  John.  He  thought  of  the 
Treasure  Shop;  of  that  pathetic  figure,  hiding  in 
the  shadows  of  it,  who  would  not  sell  his  goods, 
because  he  loved  them  too  well. 

"  Could  you  leave  them  to  poverty  then  ?  "  said 
Jill. 

"  So  it's  too  late  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  I've  given  my  word,"  she  replied. 

He  lifted  her  hand  generously  to  his  lips  *nd 
kissed  it. 


282     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Then  you  mustn't  come  to-morrow,"  he  said 
quietly. 

"  Not  see  them  again  ?  "  she  echoed. 

"  No.  You  must  send  some  excuse.  Write  to  my 
mother.  Say  your  friends  have  decided  to  stop  at 
Bologna  on  their  way  to  Milan  and  that  they  are 
going  to  start  at  once.  She  loves  you  too  well — 
she  counts  on  you  too  much  already.  It'll  be  a  long 
time  before  I  can  drive  out  of  her  head  the  thought 
that  you  are  going  to  be  my  wife.  And  I  don't 
want  to  do  it  by  telling  her  that  you  are  going  to 
be  married  to  someone  else.  She  wouldn't  under- 
stand that.  She  belongs  to  an  old-fashioned  school, 
where  ringlets  and  bonnets  and  prim  little  black 
shoes  over  dainty  white  stockings,  make  a  wonder- 
ful difference  to  one's  behaviour.  She  probably 
couldn't  understand  your  wanting  to  see  them  under 
such  a  circumstance  as  that.  She  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve that  you  cared  for  me  and,  if  she  did,  would 
think  that  we  shouldn't  see  each  other,  as  perhaps, 
after  this,  we  shan't.  No,  I  shall  have  quite  enough 
difficulty  in  driving  you  out  of  her  mind  as  it  is. 
You  mustn't  come  and  see  them  to-morrow.  She'll 
nearly  break  her  heart  when  she  hears  it,  but  nearly 
is  not  quite." 

"  Shan't  I  ever  see  them  again  then.f* "  she  asked 
below  her  breath. 

He  shook  his  head. 

**  This  is  the  last  time  you'll  see  any  of  us." 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  For  a  mo- 
ment, she  clung  to  him,  her  face  closely  looking  into 
his  as  though  she  must  store  him  in  her  memory 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    28S 

for  the  rest  of  time.  He  shut  his  eyes.  He  dared 
not  kiss  her.  When  the  lips  touch,  they  break  a 
barrier  through  which  floods  a  torrent  there  is  no 
quenching.  John  shut  his  eyes  and  held  back  his 
head,  lest  the  touching  of  her  hair  or  the  warmth 
of  her  breath  should  weaken  his  resolve. 

"  How  am  I  to  do  it  ?  "  she  whispered.  '*  I  feel  as 
though  I  must  stay  now;  as  though  I  never  wanted 
to  go  back  home  again.'* 

He  said  nothing.  The  very  tone  of  his  voice 
would  have  been  persuasion  to  her  then.  Slowly,  she 
unclasped  her  fingers ;  as  slowly  she  drew  herself 
away.  That  was  the  last  moment  when  he  could 
have  won  her.  Then  she  was  his  as  the  blood  was 
rushing  through  him,  as  her  pulses  were  throbbing 
wildly  in  time  to  his.  But  in  love — it  may  be  dif- 
ferent in  war — these  things  may  not  be  taken  so. 
Some  vague,  some  mystical  notion  of  the  good  does 
not  permit  of  it. 

"  You  must  be  going,"  said  John  gently.  "  We 
can't  stay  here." 

She  let  him  lead  her  to  the  door.  As  it  came  open 
to  his  hand  and  the  greater  light  flooded  in,  he  knew 
that  it  was  all  finished. 

She  stepped  down  into  her  gondola  that  was  wait- 
ing, and  the  gondolier  pushed  off  from  the  steps. 
Until  it  swayed  out  of  sight,  John  stood  motion- 
less on  the  fondamenta,  watching  its  passing.  Some- 
times Jill  looked  back  over  her  shoulder  and  waved 
a  little  handkerchief.  John  bent  his  head  acknowl- 
edging it. 

But  neither  of  them  saw  the  two  white  heads  that, 


284    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

close  together  in  a  window  up  above,  were  whisper- 
ing to  each  other  in  happy  ignorance  of  all  the 
misery  which  that  little  white  handkerchief  conveyed. 

*'You  see  how  long  they  took  to  get  down  the 
steps,"  whispered  the  old  lady. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  that  you  can  judge  anything 
by  that,"  replied  her  husband.  "  Those  steps  are 
very  dark  to  anyone  not  accustomed  to  them." 

She  took  his  arm.  She  looked  up  into  his  face. 
Her  brown  eyes  twinkled. 

*'  They  are,"  she  whispered  back — "  very  dark — 
nearly  as  dark  as  that  little  avenue  up  to  the  house 
where  I  lived  when  you  first  met  me." 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

THE    SIXTEENTH    OF    FEBRUARY— LONDON 

The  abhorrence  of  Nature  for  a  vacuum,  is  nothing 
to  her  abomination  of  unfinished  work.  In  the  great 
Tapestry  which  Time  sits  eternally  weaving  with  the 
coloured  threads  of  circumstance,  there  are  no  loose 
ends  allowed.  Every  little  picture  which  finds  its 
way  into  the  mighty  subject  of  that  vast  material, 
must  be  complete  in  its  symbol  of  accomplished  Des- 
tiny. No  ragged  edges  must  there  be;  no  lines  un- 
finished, no  shadow  left  out.  And  even,  in  so  incon- 
sequent a  matter  as  a  story  of  Beautiful  Nonsense, 
some  definite  completion  must  be  shown  to  round 
the  whole,  to  leave  no  hanging  thread  by  which  the 
picture  might  be  unravelled. 

When  John  said  good-bye  to  Jill  on  the  steps  of 
the  fondamenta,  when  the  last  wave  of  her  little 
white  handkerchief  had  fluttered  into  a  curling  light 
upon  the  water,  he  had  turned  back  into  the  house, 
believing  that  the  story  was  irretrievably  ended. 
The  last  word  had  been  written.  So  far  as  Jill  was 
concerned,  he  might  well  close  the  book  and  thank 
the  pen  of  Chance  that  it  had  shown  him  an  ideal  as 
high  above  the  common  conception  of  life  as  it  is 
good  for  the  eyes  of  a  man  to  lift. 

But  he  had  not,  in  this  calculation,  counted  the 
presence  of  those  two  white  heads  in  the  window  up 
above.     For  him,  so  far  as  his  eye  could  see,  Des- 


286    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

tiny  had  had  its  fill,  had  drained  the  cup  of  possi- 
bility to  its  utmost  dregs.  But  this  was  not  so  for 
them.  They  had  yet  to  be  appeased.  For  them, 
the  matter  had  only  just  begun.  To  them,  it  was 
the  last  shuttle,  whose  speeding  to  and  fro,  would 
weave  in  the  past  with  the  present  and  so  fulfil  their 
final  justification. 

From  that  day,  the  little  old  white-haired  lady 
looked  forward  to  John's  marriage  with  Jill  as  to 
the  consummation  of  her  whole  life's  desire.  She 
lived — she  thought — she  ordered  her  existence  for 
nothing  else.  Her  disappointment  was  pathetic  to 
witness  when  she  received  Jill's  little  note  telling 
her  departure  the  next  day.  But  her  beliefs  were 
not  shaken ;  her  hopes  were  not  thwarted.  She  still 
saw  the  last  burning  of  her  romance  before  the 
flame  should  flicker  and  become  a  light  no  more. 

She  spoke  to  John  about  it  of  course.  Sitting 
in  the  window  one  day,  the  window  that  looked  down 
on  to  the  old  gentleman's  garden,  she  told  him  what 
she  knew;  what  was  not  the  slightest  use  his  con- 
tradicting. They  loved  each  other.  Oh,  not  a  doubt 
of  it!  She  spoke  authoritatively,  as  women  will  on 
these  subjects.    Who  better  able  to  than  they? 

*'  You  really  think  she  loves  me,  mother? "  he 
asked  in  a  quick  moment  of  hopefulness. 

She  took  his  hand.  She  lifted  one  tired  arm  about 
his  neck. 

"  Why  do  you  think  she  came  like  that  to  Ven- 
ice? "  she  asked.  "  There's  not  a  thing  she  wouldn't 
do  for  you — not  a  place  she  wouldn't  go  to  in  order 
to  see  you.     Don't  you  realise  that?  " 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    28r 

It  was  unfortunate  she  should  have  chosen  that 
phrase.  There  were  things,  Jill  would  not  do  for 
him.  It  had  needed  every  effort  from  him  to  find 
the  full  value  of  unselfishness  in  what  she  was  about 
to  do;  but  he  could  not  think  that  she  loved  him  as 
his  mother  would  have  him  believe.  It  was  unfor- 
tunate, her  choosing  of  that  phrase.  From  that 
moment,  John  shrank  into  himself.  He  could  not 
bring  himself  to  tell  her  the. whole  truth  of  it;  there- 
fore, it  was  no  good  talking  any  more. 

*'  Her  people  are  too  well  off,"  he  said,  rising  with 
a  gesture  of  despair  from  the  seat  in  the  window. 
*'  They're  in  a  difi'erent  position  altogether.  I've 
no  right  to  tell  her.  I've  no  right  to  try  and  win 
her  affection.  It  would  only  be  a  hopeless  business 
all  through." 

From  that  moment,  he  avoided  the  subject;  from 
that  moment,  he  became  impregnable  whenever  the 
little  old  white-haired  lady  tried  to  assail  him  with 
the  weapons  of  her  worldly  knowledge. 

"  I  can  get  John  to  say  nothing,"  she  said  one 
night  to  her  husband.  "  He  won't  speak  about  it  at 
all." 

He  put  his  arms  round  her  in  the  darkness. 

"  You're  worrying  yourself,  little  woman,"  he 
said,  sleepily.  "  I  woke  up  once  last  night  and  you 
were  wide  awake.     Did  you  sleep  at  all  ?  " 

"  Very  Kttle,"  she  admitted. 

**  Well — you  mustn't  worry.  Leave  it  to  Nature. 
John  will  tell  her  everything  about  it  one  of  these 
days.  Young  men  are  always  getting  on  the  high 
horse  and  trying  to  tilt  against  Nature,  and  women 


288     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

are  forever  offering  to  assist  Nature,  thinking  she 
must  come  off  the  worst.  It's  waste  of  time  either 
way,  my  dearest.  Nature's  a  windmill.  It'll  grind 
the  flour  out  of  everyone  of  us  when  the  wind  blows. 
It's  no  good  tilting  at  it  on  a  windy  day;  and 
it's  no  good  trying  to  turn  the  sails  round  when 
it's  calm.  The  wind'll  blow," — he  yawned  and  turned 
over  on  his  side — "  soon  enough."  And  he  was 
asleep. 

She  believed  so  much  in  what  her  husband  said, 
did  the  little  old  white-haired  lady.  It  is  not  often, 
that  after  twenty  odd  years  of  married  life,  a  man 
keeps  still  alive  that  ideal  of  unquestionable  relia- 
bility which  his  wife  first  found  in  everything  he 
said.  Usually  there  comes  a  time — sad  enough  in 
its  way,  since  ideals  are  almost  everything — when 
those  which  once  were  words  of  wisdom,  fall  tainted 
with  the  odour  of  self-interest.  It  becomes  a  dif- 
ficult thing  to  believe  in  then,  that  aphorism  of  your 
philosopher,  which  brings  him  the  warmest  seat  in 
the  chimney  corner,  or  the  softest  place  in  the  bed. 
And  that  is  the  wisdom  of  a  lot  of  people — a  phi- 
losophy of  self,  translated  into  a  language  for 
others. 

By  some  kink  of  chance  perhaps — though  rather 
it  would  be  kinder  to  think,  by  some  quality  of  mu- 
tual affection — the  old  gentleman  had  avoided  this 
tragedy.  It  is  a  tragedy ;  for  no  man  likes  a  mean 
motive  to  be  attributed  to  his  philosophy — especially 
when  it  is  true.  And  so,  the  old  lady  still  believed 
in  the  infallibility  of  her  husband's  wisdom  which 
in  its  way  was  quite  good.     That  night  at  least 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    289 

then,  she  worried  no  more.  She  turned  over  her 
white  head  in  his  direction  and  she  fell  asleep.  And 
whenever  he  turned  through  the  night,  she  turned 
as  well.  After  twenty  years  or  so,  these  things  be- 
come mechanical.  Life  is  easier  after  twenty  years, 
if  you  can  bear  with  it  till  then. 

But  before  John  had  left,  her  worries  began  again 
and,  not  daring  to  speak  to  him  any  more,  she  was 
driven  to  bear  her  trouble  in  silence. 

She  hoped  up  to  the  last  that  he  would  mention 
it  once  more,  and  a  thousand  different  times  in  a 
thousand  different  ways,  decoyed  their  conversations 
into  topics  which  would  suggest  it  to  his  mind.  Yet 
always  with  the  caution  of  some  wary  animal  pur- 
sued, John  avoided  it — sheered  off  and  chose  another 
path. 

Even  on  the  day  of  his  departure,  she  yet  thought 
that  he  would  speak  and,  clinging  gently  to  him, 
with  her  arms  about  his  neck,  she  whispered: 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me,  John?" 

*'  Nothing — ^nothing,  dearest,"  he  replied,  adding 
the  term  of  endearment  as  he  saw  the  bitter  look 
of  disappointment  in  her  eyes. 

Then  he  was  gone.  For  another  year  that  vast 
chamber  with  its  high  windows,  and  that  tiny  room 
which  peeped  out  into  it,  would  be  silent  of  the 
sound  of  his  voice.  For  another  year,  night  after 
night,  these  two  old  people  would  continue  to  look 
up  in  surprise  when  Claudina  entered  for  the  cere- 
mony ;  they  would  continue  to  exclaim :  "  You  don't 
mean  to  say  it's  ten  o'clock,  Claudina ! "  And  per- 
haps, as  the  days  wore  on  and  the  year  drew  itself 


290    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

out  to  the  thin  grey  thread,  the  surprise  would  get 
fainter,  the  note  of  exclamation  not  so  emphatic  as 
it  used  to  be.  She  took  her  breath  in  fear  as  she 
thought  of  it.  Supposing  the  year  were  to  pass 
and  John  had  not  married  Jill.?  She  went  into  the 
little  altar  in  her  bedroom  and  commenced  a  novena 
— one  of  the  many  that  she  began  and  dutifully 
finished,  before  that  year  had  gone. 

So,  it  may  be  seen,  in  these  two  old  people,  who 
have  woven  themselves  so  inextricably  into  this  whole 
story  of  Nonsense,  how  Time  has  by  no  means  fin- 
ished with  the  picture  it  set  itself  the  weaving  on 
that  mysterious  18th  of  March,  whereof  the  calendar 
still  keeps  its  secret. 

John  went  back  to  his  labours  in  London,  but  he 
left  behind  him,  forces  at  work  of  which  he  knew 
nothing.  The  old  gentleman  was  quite  right.  Na- 
ture has  no  need  of  the  meddling  hand.  The  seed 
had  been  transplanted  into  the  mind  of  the  little 
old  white-haired  lady  and,  in  her,  will  the  completion 
of  Destiny  be  found. 

For  the  first  few  weeks,  she  wrote  her  usual  let- 
ters to  John,  avoiding  the  subject  with  a  rigid  per- 
severance which,  she  might  have  known,  which  cer- 
tainly her  husband  knew,  she  could  never  hope  to 
maintain.  This  perseverance  did  not  break  down  all 
at  once.  She  began  with  inconsequent  allusions  to 
Jill;  then  at  last,  when  they  called  forth  no  word 
of  a  reply  from  John,  she  gave  way  to  the  passion- 
ate desire  that  was  consuming  her,  commencing  a 
long  series  of  letters  of  counsel  and  advice  such  as 
an  old  lady  will  give,  who  believes  that  the  world 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    291 

is  the  same  place  that  It  was  when  she  was  a 
girl. 

"  Have  you  ever  spoken  to  her,  John?  "  she  asked 
in  one  of  her  letters.  "  With  your  eyes  you  have.  I 
saw  you  do  it  that  afternoon  at  tea.  But  the  lan- 
guage of  the  eyes  is  not  enough  for  a  woman,  who 
has,  never  heard  the  sound  of  the  spoken  word  in 
her  ears.'* 

"  Tell  her  you  love  her — ask  her  to  marry  you, 
and  if  she  says  no — don't  believe  her.  She  doesn't 
mean  it.  It's  more  or  less  impossible  for  a  woman 
to  say  yes  the  first  time.     It's  over  so  soon." 

"  You  say  her  people  are  wealthy;  that  they  are 
in  a  very  different  position  to  you.  Of  course,  I 
know  blood  is  thicker  than  water,  but  love  is 
stronger  than  them  both.  And,  after  all,  their  posi- 
tion is  one  of  luxury — that  is  of  the  body.  Your's 
is  a  position  of  the  mind.    There  is  no  comparison." 

"  /  lie  awake  sometimes  at  night,  thinking  of  all 
the  trials  and  troubles  your  father  and  I  had  to  go 
through  before  we  found  our  corner  in  the  worlds 
and  then  I  know  how  much  more  worth  than  youth 
or  luxury,  pleasure  or  ease,  is  love." 

"  /  believe  in  that  short  time  she  was  here,  she 
became  very  fond  of  me,  and  in  one  of  those  mo- 
ments when  one  woman  shows  her  heart  to  another 
■ — they  are  very  seldom — it  was  when  she  came  to 
wash  her  hands  after  eating  the  jam  sandwiches — 
she  said  she  thought  you  were  very  like  me.  Now 
comparisons,  with  women,  are  not  always  odious;  it 
is  generally  the  only  way  they  have  of  describing 
anything. 


293    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  I  am  sending  you  a  bracelet  of  jade  to  give  to 
her.  It  is  very  old.  I  will  send  you  the  history  of 
it  another  time.  I  have  it  all  written  out  somewhere. 
Anyhow,  it  belonged  to  one  of  the  great  Venetian 
ladies  when  Leonardo  Loredano  was  Doge.  Give 
it  to  her  as  coming  from  you.  It  does  come  from 
you.  I  give  it  you.  A  gift,  however  small,  however 
poor,  means  a  great  deal  to  a  woman.  She  reads  a 
meaning  into  it — the  very  meaning  I  send  with  this." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  boy,  will  you  tell  me  nothing.  Don't 
you  know  how  my  heart  must  be  aching  to  hear  some 
news  of  your  happiness.  It  is  the  last  happiness  I 
shall  know  myself.    Don't  delay  it  too  long." 

These  extracts  from  the  letters  written  by  the 
little  old  white-haired  lady  to  her  son,  John,  over 
that  period  of  the  first  three  months  after  her  meet- 
ing with  Jill,  could  occupy  the  space  of  many  a 
page  in  this  history.  But  these  few  which,  with 
John's  permission,  I  have  quoted  here,  are  sufficient 
to  show  how  close  her  heart  was  wrapt  up  in  the 
fortunes  of  his  love-making. 

Hoping,  that,  in  his  reticence  on  the  subject,  she 
might  in  time  grow  to  lose  interest,  finally  even  for- 
getting Jill's  existence  altogether,  John  procrasti- 
nated, putting  off,  putting  off  the  day  when  he  must 
tell  her  all  the  truth.  There  was,  too,  he  has  ad- 
mitted it,  some  fanciful  sense  of  satisfaction  intri- 
cately woven  in  with  the  pain  he  felt  when  he  read 
those  letters  of  hers  every  week.  It  was  nonsense 
again,  perhaps,  but  it  kept  the  idea  a  living  reality 
in  his  mind.  He  came  to  look  forward  to  them  as 
to  the  expression  of  a  life  that  was  too  wonderful, 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    293 

except  to  dream  of.  And  so,  as  an  Eastern  takes 
his  opium  and,  retiring  into  the  gloomy  shadows  of 
his  den,  is  transported  into  the  glorious  heavens  of 
a  phantom  creation,  John  read  these  letters  of  his 
mother's  in  his  room  in  Fetter  Lane.  There,  the 
passings  to  and  fro  of  Mrs.  Rowse,  the  hawker's 
cries  and  the  screams  of  the  parrot  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road,  had  no  power  to  waken  him  from  his 
sleep,  so  long  as  it  lasted. 

For  nearly  three  months — week  after  week — he 
received  these  letters,  dreamed  his  dreams  and,  in 
writing  back  to  the  little  old  white-haired  lady, 
tried  to  allay  the  expectancy  of  her  mind. 

At  last  it  could  be  done  no  longer.  You  may 
put  back  the  hands  of  a  clock  to  your  heart's  con- 
tent, but  there  is  no  warding  off  of  the  inevitable. 
There  came  a  letter  saying  she  would  write  of  it 
no  more.  It  was  not  impatient,  it  was  not  in  anger, 
but  in  the  spirit,  as  when  an  old  lady  lays  down  her 
sewing  in  her  lap  as  the  sun  sets  and,  gently  tells 
you,  she  can  see  the  stitches  no  longer. 

It  was  then,  that  John,  knowing  what  he  had  lost, 
conceived  another  felonious  means  of  transport — 
this  time  the  transport  of  the  mind. 

Jill  was  only  known  to  his  people  as  Miss  Dealtry. 
They  did  not  know  where  she  lived.  They  knew 
nothing  of  her  relations.  They  could  not  com- 
municate with  her  in  any  way. 

For  a  long  while  he  sat  looking  at  that  last  letter 
of  his  mother's,  where  she  had  said  she  would  write 
no  more  of  Jill. 

"  She  wants   a  love  story — bless  her  heart,"  he 


294    TflE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

said  musingly — and  Mrs.  Morrell's  sandy  cat  com- 
ing at  that  moment  into  the  room,  he  repeated  it 
for  the  cat's  benefit — "  She  wants  a  love  story," 
he  said.  The  cat  blinked  its  eyes,  curled  a  rough 
red  tongue  lovingly  about  its  whiskers,  and  sat  down 
as  though,  having  half  an  hour  to  spare  and  the 
tortoiseshell  not  being  in  the  way,  it  was  quite  ready 
to  listen  to  it  then. 

"  And,  by  Jove !  "  exclaimed  John — "  She  shall 
have  it ! " 

Miss  Morrell  curled  her  tail  comfortably  round 
her  in  the  most  perfect  attitude  of  attention. 

"  I'll  write  her  a  story,"  said  John  to  Miss  Mor- 
rell— "  a  story  of  beautiful  nonsense — some  of 
it  true  and  some  of  it  made  up  as  I  go  along." 

And,  therewith,  he  sat  himself  down  to  answer 
her  letter. 

It  was  necessary,  if  he  were  to  re-create  the 
interest  of  the  little  old  white-haired  lady,  for 
him  to  meet  Jill  again.  Accordingly,  with  some  in- 
genious preamble,  in  which  he  explained  his  silence 
of  the  preceding  months,  he  began  with  the  descrip- 
tion of  his  second  meeting  with  Jill  in  Kensington 
Gardens — that  time  when  she  came  and  spent  the 
entire  morning  in  telling  him  that  she  could  not  come 
and  meet  him  that  day. 

*'  Undoubtedly  God  could  have  made  a  place  more 
fitted  for  Romance  than  Kensington  Gardens,"  he 
began —  "  hut  unquestionably  He  never  did" 

And  this  was  how  the  last  tissue  of  nonsense  came 
to  be  woven. 

Of  course,  he  told  her,  that  it  was  all  a  secret.  Jill 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    295 

had  to  keep  it  a  secret  from  her  people.  He  had  to 
do  that.  Well — surely  it  was  true.''  He  put  the 
question  boldly  for  his  conscience  to  answer,  and  a 
look  of  the  real  thing  came  into  his  eyes.  It  was 
as  well,  however,  that  he  thought  of  doing  it,  for 
the  old  lady  was  nearly  landing  him  in  an  awkward 
predicament.  She  enclosed  a  letter  to  Jill  and  asked 
him  to  forward  it,  as,  of  course,  she  did  not  know 
the  address. 

He  made  a  grimace  at  Miss  Morrell  when  he  re- 
ceived it,  as  though  asking  her  what  she  would  do 
under  the  circumstances.  Miss  Morrell  yawned.  It 
was  so  simple.  So  far,  she  had  taken  an  interest 
in  the  case,  had  come  in  every  day  since  the  writing 
of  the  first  letter  to  get  her  saucer  of  milk  and  hear 
the  latest.  But  if  he  was  going  to  put  questions 
to  her  like  this,  there  was  all  probabilty  that  she 
would  be  bored.  Of  course  there  was  only  one  thing 
to  be  done.  Miss  Morrell  could  see  that.  And  John 
did  it.  He  answered  the  letter  himself — wrote  in  a 
woman's  hand ;  which  is  to  say,  he  wrote  every  letter 
slanting  backwards — said  all  that  was  important 
when  the  letter  was  finished,  and  scribbled  it  in  and 
out  between  the  date  and  the  address,  then,  with 
a  last  effort  at  realism,  spelt  two  words  wrong  on 
every  page. 

By  this  means,  he  was  getting  two  letters  every 
week,  answering  them  both  himself  with  as  much 
industry  and  regularity  as  he  ever  put  into  his 
work. 

This  was  all  very  well — all  very  simple  so  long 
as  it  lasted.     But  even  Miss  Morrell,  whose  eye  to 


296    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

the  main  chance  was  unerring  when  it  concerned  a 
saucer  of  milk,  warned  him  of  what  would  follow. 
One  morning,  he  received  a  letter  from  the  little  old 
white-haired  lady,  asking  him  when  they  were  going 
to  be  married. 

Quite  placidly,  he  sat  down  and  wrote 

"  We're  to  be  married  on  the  16th  of  February. 
Vve  taken  a  small  cottage  down  in  the  country.  It 
costs  forty  pounds  a  year.  I  thought  it  wise  to  be- 
gin on  economical  lines.  There's  a  little  rustic  porch 
to  the  front  door,  with  William  Allan  Richardson 
roses  climbing  all  over  it.  In  the  front,  there  are 
ten  feet  of  garden,  protected  from  the  road  by  a 
•wooden  railing  about  two  foot  and  a  brick  high  with' 
a  tiny  gate  thafs  always  locked  to  prevent  bur- 
glars getting  in.  Three  pink  chestnuts  combine  to 
give  it  the  appearance  of  an  ambrosial  park.  At 
the  back,  there's  a  little  lawn,  just  large  enough  for 
pitch  and  toss — Vve  measured  it  myself,  it  takes 
thirty-nine  and  a  half  of  the  longest  steps  I  can 
take.  And  in  the  middle  there's  an  apple  tree, — 
that's  likely  to  have  a  crop  of  three  this  year," 

Miss  Morrell  closed  her  eyes  in  silent  acquiescence 
when  he  read  it  out  to  her.  It  is  possible  that  she 
may  have  considered  him  extravagant  and,  having 
that  eye  to  the  main  chance,  wondered  whether  he 
would  be  able  to  afford  her  her  basin  of  milk  with 
all  this  expenditure  on  two  establishments.  She  did 
not  say  it,  however,  and  listened  patiently  when 
he  told  her  of  other  arrangements  he  had  made. 

"  I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  taking  Miss  ]\Ior- 
rell  on  his  knee — "  that  Lizzie  Rowse  is  going  to 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    297 

give  up  sticking  labels  on  the  jam-jars  at  Crosse 
and  Blackwell's  and  is  coming  to  do  housemaid,  cook, 
and  general  help  for  seven  and  sixpence  a  week — 
including  beer  money  as  she  doesn't  drink.  I  wanted 
to  pay  her  more,  but  she  wouldn't  take  it.  I  asked 
her  why  and  she  said,  because  she  mightn't  get  it; 
that  it  was  better  to  be  certain  of  things  in  this 
world,  rather  than  spending  your  life  in  hoping  for 
what  was  too  good  to  be  true.  It  was  no  good  my 
telling  her  that  the  whole  business  was  only  going 
to  be  transacted  on  paper,  and  that  black  and  white 
would  be  the  colour  of  everything  she'd  ever  make 
out  of  it.  But  no !  Seven  and  six  was  what  she 
stuck  at.  As  it  was,  it  was  a  rise  of  sixpence  to 
what  she  was  getting  at  the  jam-jars,  and  she 
wouldn't  t<ike  a  penny  more.  She  said  I'd  been  too 
kind  to  her  as  it  was." 

Miss  Morrell  listened  to  all  this  with  contempt. 
Mrs.  Rowse  was  not  in  good  repute  just  then.  They 
thought  very  nasty  things  about  her  on  the  third 
and  second  floors — what  is  more,  they  said  them,  and 
in  tones  quite  loud  enough  for  Miss  Morrell  and  her 
tortoiseshell  companion  to  hear. 

Mrs.  Rowse,  it  appeared,  had  spilt  some  water 
on  the  landing  mid-way  between  the  first  and  second 
floor  where  was  the  water  cock  common  to  the  entire 
uses  of  the  whole  establishment.  Five  drops  would 
convey  an  idea  of  about  the  amount  she  had  spilled. 
At  a  first  glance,  this  may  seem  very  slight,  but 
when  it  is  explained  that  the  stairs  from  the  first 
to  the  second  floor  were  covered  with  linoleum  spe- 
cially purchased  by  Mrs.  Brown  to  make  the  a£- 


298    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

proach  to  her  residence  the  more  ornate,  it  will  be 
easily  understood  what  a  heinous  offence  this  was. 

Mrs.  Brown  had  spoken  about  it  and  the  untidy 
habits  of  the  people  on  the  first  floor  generally,  in 
tones  so  opprobrious  and  so  loud  that  not  only  the 
first  floor,  but  indeed  the  whole  house  had  heard  her. 
Following  this,  there  had  appeared,  stuck  upon  the 
wall  so  that  all  who  approached  the  fountain  must 
read,  the  accompanying  notice — "  If  persons  spill 
the  water,  will  they  have  the  kindness  to  slop  it  up." 

It  may  be  imagined  how,  in  the  effort  to  compose 
so  reserved  a  notice  as  this,  the  feelings  of  Mrs. 
Brown,  aided  and  abetted  by  Mrs.  Morrell,  must 
have  overflowed  in  speech,  all  of  which,  of  course, 
Miss  Morrell  would  undoubtedly  have  heard.  Hence 
her  contempt. 

When  John  had  finished  his  dissertation  upon  the 
generosity  and  good  qualities  of  Lizzie  Rowse,  Miss 
Morrell  climbed  down  quietly  from  his  knee.  She 
was  too  dignified  to  say  what  she  thought  about  it 
and  so,  with  tail  erect,  stiffened  a  little  perhaps  for 
fear  he  might  not  perceive  the  full  value  of  her 
dignity,  she  walked  from  the  room. 

The  time  passed  by.  It  grew  perilously  near  to 
that  16th  of  February.  But  John  took  it  all  very 
placidly ;  probably  that  is  the  way,  when  one  does 
these  things  on  paper.  He  invented  all  day  long, 
and  took  as  much  pride  in  the  ingenuity  and  con- 
struction of  those  letters  as  ever  he  took  over  his 
work. 

"We  went  last  night  to  the  pit  of  a  theatre,'* 
he  said  one  morning  to  Miss  Morrell.     "  Took  Mrs. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    299 

Rowse  and  Lizzie  and  Maud.  The  two  girls  per- 
sisted in  eating  oranges  till  Maud  put  a  piece  of  a 
bad  one  in  her  mouth ;  then  they  both  stopped.  I 
was  rather  glad,  Maud  got  hold  of  a  bad  one,  be- 
cause I  was  just  racking  my  -brains  to  know  how  I 
could  stop  them  without  giving  offence." 

Miss  Morrell  looked  quietly  up  into  his  face. 

**  You  shouldn't  take  those  sort  of  people  to  a 
theatre,"  said  she. 

John  took  no  notice  of  her  grammar.  "  It  was 
Jill's  idea,"  he  replied. 

On  the  16th  of  February,  right  enough,  they  were 
married.  Miss  Morrell  came  that  morning  to  drink 
her  saucer  of  milk  in  honour  of  the  event. 

She  walked  in  without  knocking.  It  was  her 
privilege.  John  was  seated  at  his  table,  with  his 
head  buried  in  his  hands,  his  shoulders  shaking  like 
a  woman's  with  sobs  that  had  no  tears  in  them. 
And  there,  before  him,  with  their  paper  wrappings 
all  scattered  about  the  place,  were  a  pair  of  Dresden 
china  shepherds,  playing  gaily  on  their  lutes.  Hang- 
ing about  the  neck  of  one  of  them  was  a  card,  on 
which  was  written :  "  To  John  on  Ms  wedding  day 
— from  his  loving  father." 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

THE    DISSOLUBLE    BONDAGE 

If  only  it  were  that  these  things  could  continue — 
but  alas !  they  cannot !  We  make  our  bubbles  with 
all  the  colours  of  heaven  in  them,  but  cannot 
abide  to  see  them  only  floating  in  the  air.  The 
greens  and  purples,  the  golds  and  scarlets,  they 
seem  so  real  upon  the  face  of  that  diaphonous,  crys- 
tal disc,  that  to  touch  them,  to  find  their  glorious 
stain  upon  the  fingers,  becomes  the  desire  of  every 
one  of  us.  Out  stretches  the  hand,  the  fingers 
tighten!     The  bubble  is  gone! 

That  was  much  the  way  with  John's  beautiful 
bubble  of  Nonsense.  So  long  as  Jill  knew  nothing 
of  it;  so  long  as  he  played  with  the  fairy  thing  by 
himself,  it  was  enough;  but  the  every-day  business 
of  life,  in  which  death  is  one  of  the  unavoidable 
duties,  intervened.  One  cannot  play  at  these  won- 
derful games  for  long.  You  cannot  be  married  on 
paper — more  perhaps  is  the  pity.  There  would  be 
fewer  separations,  fewer  misunderstandings  if  you 
could.  Life  unfortunately  does  not  permit  of  it. 
The  law  of  Gravity  is  universal.  You  come  down 
to  earth. 

When  John  had  been  living  a  married  life  of  un- 
broken happiness  for  two  months,  there  came  two 
letters  on  the  same  day  to  Fetter  Lane.    He  looked 

300 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    301 

at  one  with  no  greater  bewilderment  than  he  did  at 
the  other.  The  first  was  from  Venice  In  a  strange 
handwriting;  the  second,  from  Jill.  He  opened  it 
apprehensively.  It  could  not  be  an  invitation  to 
her  wedding.''  She  could  not  have  done  that?  Then 
what? 

"  Is  there  any  reason  why  we  should  not  see  each 
other  again?  I  shall  he  in  Kensington  Gardens  to- 
morrow at  11.30." 

He  laid  it  down  upon  the  table.  For  the  moment, 
he  forgot  the  existence  of  the  other  letter.  In  the 
midst  of  all  his  make-believe,  this  message  from  Jill 
was  hard  to  realise ;  no  easy  matter  to  reconcile  with 
all  the  phantoms  in  whose  company  he  had  been 
living. 

What  strange  and  unexpected  things  were  women ! 
Did  ever  they  know  what  they  wanted?  or,  knowing, 
and  having  found  it,  did  any  of  them  believe  it  to 
be  what  they  had  thought  it  at  first? 

Was  she  married?  Since  he  had  come  back  from 
Venice,  the  world  might  have  been  dead  of  her.  He 
had  heard  nothing — seen  nothing — and  now  this 
letter.  Like  the  falling  of  some  bolt  of  destruc- 
tion from  a  heaven  of  blue,  it  had  dropped  into  his 
garden,  crushing  the  tenderest  flowers  he  had  planted 
there,  in  its  swift  rush  of  reality. 

She  wanted  to  see  him  again.  The  mere  wish 
was  a  command;  the  mere  statement  that  she  would 
be  in  Kensington  Gardens,  a  summons.  All  his  sac- 
rifice, his  putting  her  away  from  him  that  day  of  her 
departure  In  Venice,  was  in  one  moment  gone  for 
nought.    All  this  dream  in  which  he  had  been  living, 


S02     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

became  the  bubble  broken  in  the  hand  of  such  cir- 
cumstance as  this.  While  it  had  lasted,  while  he 
had  continued  to  hear  nothing  of  her,  it  had  been 
real  enough.  Up  till  that  moment,  he  had  been  hap- 
pily married,  quietly  living  down  at  Harefield  in  the 
county  of  Middlesex,  in  his  cottage  with  its  William 
Allan  Richardson  roses  and  its  insurmountable 
wooden  railing,  two  foot  and  a  brick  high.  Every 
day,  he  had  been  coming  up  to  London  to  work  in 
Fetter  Lane  and  to  get  his  letters.  Some  very  good 
reason,  he  had  given  to  the  old  people  why  they 
should  Avrite  to  him  there.  And  now,  because  he 
must  obey  this  summons  to  go  to  Kensington  Gar- 
dens and  talk  of  things,  perhaps,  that  little  mat- 
tered, for  fear  they  might  embark  upon  the  sea  of 
those  things  that  did,  all  his  dream  had  vanished. 
The  only  reality  left  him,  was  that  he  was  alone. 

With  a  deep  breath  of  resignation,  he  turned  to 
the  other  letter  and  opened  it. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Grey — /  am  writing  this  for  your 
mother,  to  tell  you  the  unfortunate  news  that  your 
father  is  very  ill.  He  has  had  a  heart  seizure,  and, 
I  fear,  cannot  live  more  than  a  few  days.  I  am  told 
hy  Mrs.  Grey  to  ask  you  and  your  wife  to  come  here 
as  soon  as  possible.  He  knows  the  worst,  and  is  ask- 
ing to  see  you  before  he  dies." 

The  paper  hung  limply  in  John's  fingers.  He 
stared  blindly  at  the  wall  in  front  of  liim.  One  hand 
of  ice  seemed  laid  upon  his  forehead;  the  cold  fin- 
gers of  another  gripped  his  heart. 

Death — the  end  of  everything — the  irrevocable 
passing  into  an  impenetrable  darkness.     It  was  well 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    SOS 

enough  to  believe  in  things  hereafter;  but  to  put  it 
into  practice  wanted  a  power  greater  than  belief. 
The  old  gentleman  was  going  to  die.  The  little  old 
white-haired  lady  was  to  be  left  alone.  How  could 
he  believe  it.''  Would  she  believe  it.?  Old  people 
must  die.  He  had  said  that  often  enough  to  himself 
while  they  had  been  well,  while  there  had  been  no 
fear  of  it.  He  had  said  it,  as  the  philosopher  says 
that  everything  that  is,  is  for  the  best.  Now,  as  the 
philosopher  so  frequently  has  to  do,  he  had  to  put 
it  to  the  test. 

His  father  was  going  to  die.  In  a  few  days,  he 
would  see  the  last  of  him.  Then  pictures — scenes  in 
his  father's  life — rode  processionally  through  his 
mind.  Last  of  all,  he  saw  him,  hands  trembling, 
eyes  alight  and  expression  eager,  placing  back  the 
Dresden  Shepherd  in  the  windoAV  of  the  Treasure 
Shop — that  same  gay  figure  in  china  which,  with  its 
fellow,  he  had  sent  to  John  on  his  imaginary  wed- 
ding day. 

With  that  picture,  came  the  tears  tumbling  from 
his  eyes.  The  wall  opposite  became  a  blurred  vision 
in  shadow  as  he  stared  at  it.  And  all  the  time,  the 
two  Dresden  Shepherds,  perched  upon  his  mantel- 
piece, played  gaily  on  their  lutes. 

In  the  light-heartedness  of  his  imagination,  he 
had  not  conceived  of  this  aspect  of  his  deception. 
His  father  had  asked  to  see  his  wife  before  he  died. 
Now,  he  would  give  the  world  that  the  description 
had  never  been.  Already,  he  could  see  the  look  of 
pain  in  the  old  gentleman's  eyes,  when  he  should 
say — as  say  he  must — that  he  had  had  to  leave  her 


304     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

behind.  Already,  he  could  feel  the  sting  of  his  own 
conscience  when,  by  that  bedside  in  the  little  room, 
he  invented  the  last  messages  which  Jill  had  sent  to 
make  his  passing  the  easier. 

It  had  been  simple  matter  enough  to  conceive  a 
thousand  of  these  messages  and  write  them  upon 
paper;  it  had  been  simple  matter  enough  to  write 
those  letters,  which  they  were  to  suppose  had  come 
from  Jill's  own  hand.  But  to  act — to  become  the 
mummer  in  mask  and  tinsel,  beside  his  father's  death- 
bed, hurt  every  sensibility  he  possessed.  It  was 
beyond  him.  He  knew  he  could  not  do  it.  Jill  must 
know.  Jill  must  be  told  everything,  the  whole  story 
of  this  flight  of  his  imagination.  He  trusted  the 
gentle  heart  of  her,  at  least,  to  give  him  some  mes- 
sage of  her  own ;  something  he  could  repeat  for  his 
father  to  hear,  without  the  deriding  knowledge  in 
his  heart  that  it  was  all  a  lie,  all  a  fabrication,  which, 
if  the  old  gentleman  did  but  know,  he  would  reproach 
him  with  in  his  last  moments. 

There,  then,  with  the  tears  still  falling  down  his 
cheeks,  he  wrote  to  Jill,  telling  her  everything;  en- 
closing the  last  letter  which  he  had  just  received. 

**  Give  me  something  to  say"  he  begged — 
**  something  which  comes  from  the  kindness  of  your 
heart  and  not  from  the  fiendishness  of  my  imagina- 
tion. In  those  few  moments  you  saw  him,  he  must 
have  shown  you  some  of  the  gentleness  of  his  nature; 
must  have  shoxtm  you  something  which,  putting  aside 
the  blame  which  I  deserve  at  your  hands  for  all  I 
have  said,  expects  this  generosity  from  you.  I  have 
become  a  beggar,  an  importunate  beggar,  scarcely 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    305 

to  be  denied;  but  I  become  so  with  all  humility.  Just 
zvrite  me  a  line.  You  can  see  now,  that  I  dare  not 
meet  you  to-morrow,  now  that  you  know.  But  send 
me  a  line  as  soon  as  you  receive  this,  which  I  may 
learn  by  heart  and  repeat  to  him  with  a  conscience 
made  clear,  in  so  much  as  I  shall  know  that  such 
words  have  actually  been  said  by  you." 

When  he  had  posted  this,  John  began  the  packing 
of  those  things  which  he  would  require  for  the  jour- 
ney. Into  the  chapel  of  unredemption  he  marched 
and  made  an  indiscriminate  offering  of  everything 
he  possessed  on  his  list  of  sacrificial  objects.  The 
high  priest  swept  them  all  into  his  keeping  and 
winked  at  his  acolytes. 

The  next  morning  came  Jill's  reply.  John  tore 
it  open,  and  read  and  re-read  and  re-read  again. 

"  Meet  me  on  Friday  morning  on  the  Piazetta 
at  12  o'clock" 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

THE   WONDER    OF    BELIEF 

To  believe,  is  the  greater  part  of  reality. 

Despite  all  argument  that  flung  itself  at  his  cre- 
dulity, John  believed  that  Jill  would  be  true  to  her 
word.  Reasons  in  multitude  there  were,  why  it 
should  be  impossible  for  her  to  take  such  a  journey 
and  at  such  short  notice.  He  admitted  them  all,  as 
his  mind  presented  them  before  him;  yet  still  he  be- 
lieved. Though  his  faith  trembled  a  thousand  times 
in  the  balance ;  though  common  sense  warned  him  in- 
sistently that  hope  was  fruitless ;  nevertheless,  he  be- 
lieved. Even  when  the  little  men  on  the  Plaza  be- 
gan the  striking  of  their  twelve  strokes  on  that  Fri- 
day morning  and,  searching  the  gondolas  as  they 
rode  in  sight,  searching  them  with  eyes  burning  and 
pupils  dilated  in  nervous  expectancy,  yet  finding  no 
sight  of  Jill,  he  still  had  faith  that  triumphed  above 
all  reason  and  overcame  all  doubt. 

The  vibrations  of  the  last  stroke  from  the  great 
clock  in  the  Square  had  died  down  to  the  faint  trem- 
bling in  his  ear;  the  single  bell  in  all  the  churches 
was  tolling  for  the  Angelus;  hope  was  just  begin- 
ning to  flicker  in  John's  heart  as  a  candle  trembles 
that  feels  its  approaching  end  and  then,  round  the 
corner  of  the  Rio  San  Luca,  shooting  quickly  into 
the  Grand  Canal,  came  the  twentieth  gondola  John 
had  espied,  in  which  one  solitary  lady  was  seated. 

806 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    307i 

Something  about  the  haste  with  which  this  gon- 
dolier phed  his  oar,  something  in  the  attitude  of  the 
lady  as  she  half  leant  forward,  half  reclined  upon 
the  cushion  at  her  back,  something  even  in  the  crisp, 
swift  hiss  of  the  water  as  it  shot  away  from  the  bows, 
brought  him  the  conviction  at  last  that  it  was  Jill. 
When  instinct  is  once  awake,  it  finds  a  thousand 
little  proofs  to  give  it  assurance. 

As  the  gondola  came  nearer,  the  lady  moved  her 
position.  She  had  observed  John  waiting.  He 
strained  his  eyes  to  see  through  the  glare  of  light 
that  sparkled  up  from  the  dancing  water.  Then  a 
little  white  handkerchief  darted  out,  and  fluttering, 
shook  the  beating  of  his  heart  with  realisation.  It 
was  Jill. 

In  another  moment,  he  was  holding  her  hands  and 
saying  the  most  common-place  words  of  greeting, 
but  in  a  voice  that  held  in  it  all  the  joy  of  his  heart. 
The  gondolier  stood  by  smiling,  waiting  to  be  paid. 
The  signora  had  wanted  to  be  taken  quickly  to  the 
Piazetta,  and  he  had  travelled  as  fast  as  if  they  were 
going  to  a  funeral.  It  was  almost  payment  enough 
to  see  her  meeting  with  the'  signor.  Not  quite 
enough,  however,  for  when  they  walked  away,  for- 
getting, in  the  embarrassement  of  their  happiness, 
what  he  was  owed,  he  stepped  forward  and,  very 
politely,  touched  John's  arm. 

"  Doue  lire,  signor,"  he  said  and  showed  some 
wonderful  teeth  in  a  brilliant  smile.  John  thought 
of  a  London  cabby  under  similar  circumstances,  giv- 
ing him  three  and  a  smile  as  well. 

Then  he  turned  back  to  Jill. 


808    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Well — are  you  going  to  explain  it  all  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  There's  nothing  to  explain,"  she  said,  half 
laughing.    "  I'm  here — isn't  that  enough  ?  " 

"  But  your  husband.''  " 

"  We're  not  married  yet.  I  pleaded  for  a  long 
engagement." 

"  Then  your  people  ?  " 

"  Aren't  you  satisfied  that  I'm  here?  "  she  said 
gently.  "  Does  it  matter  how  I  got  here?  You 
might  just  as  well  be  curious  to  know  whether  I 
came  by  the  St.  Gothard  or  the  Simplon.  But  you 
don't  ask  that.  I'm  here — you  don't  worry  about 
that.  Then  why  worry  about  the  other?  "  and  her 
eyes  twinkled  with  mystery. 

**  Is  it  Mrs.  Crossthwaite  again?  " 

She  nodded  her  head  with  a  laugh. 

"She's  with  you?" 

"  No — she's  at  her  cottage  in  Devonshire." 

"  But  you'll  be  found  out." 

**  Not  if  I  go  back  to-morrow." 

"And  you  are  going  back?" 

"Yes." 

*'  And  you  came  all  this  way ?  " 

*'  Yes — here  I  am — in  the  City  of  Beautiful  Non- 
sense again." 

"  The  little  old  white-haired  lady  was  right 
then !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"How  right?" 

"  She  said  that  you  would  come  anywhere,  that 
you  would  do  anything  for  me." 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    309 

tTIll  tried  to  meet  his  eyes. 

*'  When  did  she  say  that?  '*  she  asked. 

*'  Last  year — after  you  had  gone." 

He  watched  her  as  he  waited  for  her  to  reply, 
but  she  kept  silent.  It  was  not  a  moment  in  which 
she  dared  to  speak;  moreover,  other  matters  were 
waiting. 

In  St.  Mark's,  beneath  the  image  of  St.  Anthony, 
where  they  had  met  the  year  before,  they  chose  to 
go  and  make  their  arrangements.  There  is  every- 
thing that  is  conservative  about  Romance.  Places 
become  dear  for  themselves,  for  the  spirit  of  the 
Romance  which,  like  a  lingering  perfume,  still  hangs 
about  their  comers.  The  times  alter  perhaps,  some- 
times even  the  woman  herself  is  different;  but  the 
spirit,  the  Romance  and  with  them  often  the  place, 
remain  the  same. 

"  You  understand  all  it  means,  your  coming  to  see 
them  ?  "  he  asked  when  they  were  seated.  "  You 
understood  my  letter.''  You  realise  what  I've  been 
saying  ?  " 

"  Yes,  every  word." 

"Then  why  did  you  come?" 

"  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  his  dying  with- 
out  "  she  hesitated,  or  did  she  hang  upon  the 

words — "  without  seeing  your — your  wife  as  he 
wanted  to.  Oh,  John!  Why  did  you  say  it?  It 
wasn't  right  of  you!  You  ought  not  to  have  done 
it!" 

She  was  angry!  His  beautiful  nonsense  had  of- 
fended her!    Might  he  not  have  known  that?    What 


310    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

woman  in  the  world  was  there  who  could  have  under- 
stood so  well  as  to  sympathise  with  the  trick  which 
he  had  played. 

"  If  it  has  annoyed  you,"  said  he,  "  why  did 
you  come?  Of  course,  I  know  it  was  unpardonable; 
but  then,  I  thought  you'd  never  know.  I  didn't  un- 
derstand how  much  a  fabrication,  an  invention  it 
was,  until  I  heard  that  he  was  dying  and  wanted 
to  see  you  before  the  end.  It  had  been  so  easy  to 
make  up  till  then.  I'd  become  infatuated  with  my 
own  success.  Then,  when  I  got  the  letter  from  the 
doctor,  I  realised  that  I  was  done.  I  couldn't  go  to 
his  death-bed,  making  up  lies,  giving  him  messages 
that  had  never  passed  your  lips,  never  entered  into 
your  thoughts.  I  was  done.  And  I  hoped  you'd 
understand.  I  hoped — like  a  fool,  I  suppose — that 
you  wouldn't  be  offended." 

"  But  I'm  not  offended." 

He  stared  at  her.  Even  St.  Anthony  stared,  be- 
cause St.  Anthony  does  not  know  so  much  about 
women  as  you  would  expect.  He  knows  full  well  their 
extraordinary  valuation  of  trifles,  but  on  serious 
matters  such  as  these,  he  is  as  ignorant  of  them  as 
the  rest  of  us. 

*'  You're  not  offended !  "  echoed  John. 

«  No." 

"  Then  why  did  you  say  I  was  wrong?  Why  did 
you  say  I  ought  not  to  have  done  it?  " 

"  Because  it  was  not  fair  to  them.  They  might 
have  found  out.  The  little  old  white-haired  lady 
may  find  out  even  now." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  it  was  unfair  to  you?  " 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    311 

"You  thought  I  should?" 

He   nodded   emphatically   two   or   three   times. 

"  That,  I  believe,  is  the  way  you  judge  women. 
That  is  why  their  actions  are  so  incomprehensible 
to  you.  You  form  an  opinion  of  them  and  then,  nat- 
urally, everything  they  do  seems  a  mystery,  because 
you  won't  change  your  opinion.  They're  not  the 
mystery.  I  assure  you'  women  are  very  simple. 
The  mystery  is  that  their  actions  don't  conform  with 
your  pre-conceived  opinion."  She  stumbled  over 
those  last  big  words.  She  was  not  quite  sure  of 
them.  They  sounded  very  large,  moreover,  they 
sounded  as  if  they  expressed  what  she  felt.  What 
they  really  meant  was  another  matter.  She  could 
have  told  you  nothing  about  that.  That  is  not  the 
way  women  choose  their  words. 

*'  Well  now,"  he  said — "  we  must  be  going.  Of 
course  I  haven't  been,  though  I  arrived  last  night. 
I  counted  on  your  coming." 

**  Yes,"  she  whispered,  "  that's  the  wonderful  part 
about  you — you  believe." 

She  thought  of  her  father — she  thought  of  the 
man  with  the  brown  beard  like  St.  Joseph.  They 
believed  nothing  until  it  was  before  their  eyes.  But 
a  woman  likes  to  be  trusted,  because  at  least,  she 
means  to  do  what  she  says;  sometimes — God  knows 
— she  does  it. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI 

THE   PASSING 

It  was  a  greater  ordeal  than  they  knew  of,  for 
Death,  though  he  is  for  ever  in  our  midst,  always 
covers  his  face,  and  you  may  never  recognise  the 
features  until  that  last  moment  when,  with  the 
sweeping  gesture  of  the  arm,  he  throws  aside  the 
folds  that  enshroud  him,  and  in  his  quiet  voice,  so 
low,  yet  so  distinct,  announces  "  It  is  finished." 

At  the  opening  of  the  little  door,  they  beheld 
the  dear  old  white-haired  lady.  Her  arms  fell 
about  them  both  and,  in  her  feeble  way,  she  clasped 
them  to  her.  It  was  not  hysterical,  not  that  cry  of 
the  witless  woman  who  is  faced  with  the  stern  matters 
of  life  and  will  lean  upon  any  shoulder  to  support 
her  weight.  She  was  losing  that  which  was  hers 
alone,  and  these  two,  though  she  thought  they  be- 
longed irrevocably  to  each  other,  belonged  also  in 
their  way  to  her.  They  were  all  now  that  was  left 
her. 

"  How  is  he?  "  asked  John,  as  she  led  them  down 
that  vast  chamber  to  the  deep-set  door  which  opened 
to  the  tiny  bedroom. 

"  You're  only  just  in  time,"  she  replied.  "  The 
priest  is  with  him.     It's  just  the  end." 

There  was  a  true,  a  steady  note  of  reconciliation 
in  her  voice.     She  knew  and  had  accepted  the  inevi- 

Slt 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    313 

table  with  that  silent  courage  which  brave  women 
have.  You  knew  that  there  would  be  no  sudden  pas- 
sionate outburst  of  cries  and  tears  when  at  last  it 
actually  was  all  over.  His  time  of  departure  had 
come.  She  recognised  it;  had  faced  it  bravely  for 
the  last  few  days.  On  Claudina's  ample  bosom,  the 
first  wild  torrent  of  weeping  had  been  made ;  for  your 
servant,  your  meanest  slave  is  a  woman  when  she 
understands  in  such  moments  as  these.  When  her 
agony  had  passed,  she  had  raised  her  head,  brushed 
away  the  tears.  With  warm  water,  Claudina  had 
bathed  her  eyes  and  then,  bravely  setting  a  smile 
upon  her  trembling  lips,  she  had  gone  to  watch  by 
his  bedside. 

Gently,  now,  she  opened  the  door  and  admitted 
them,  then  silently  closed  it  behind  her.  The  jalou- 
sies were  closed.  In  faint  bars  of  hght,  the  sunshine 
stole  into  the  room  and  lit  it  faintly  as  though 
stained  through  the  amber-coloured  glass  of  church 
windows.  In  a  deep  shadow,  burnt  the  tiny  flame  of 
red  upon  their  bedroom  altar.  Bowed  humbly  down 
before  it,  knelt  the  priest,  whose  even,  muttered 
tones  just  stirred  in  a  gentle  vibration  of  sound  as 
of  some  hive  of  bees  muffled  with  a  heavy  cloth  and, 
only  with  the  sibilant  lisping  of  the  breath  between 
his  lips  as  he  pronounced  certain  letters,  did  it  seem 
that  a  man  was  speaking  at  all.  It  was  all  so  quiet, 
so  even,  so  monotonous,  a  gentle  noise  to  waft  a 
spirit  to  its  last  sleep. 

In  a  dark  corner  of  the  room,  away  from  the  rest, 
almost  lost  in  the  shadow,  knelt  Claudina,  her  head 
bent  low  upon  her  breast,  her  shoulders  gently  lift- 


314     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

ing  and  falling  in  sobs  that  were  tuned  low  to  the 
silence.  She  did  not  look  up  as  they  entered.  The 
priest  did  not  move  his  head.  It  all  continued,  just 
as  if  nothing  had  happened  and,  lying  still,  inert 
upon  the  pillow,  almost  lost  in  the  big  bed,  was  that 
silent  figure  of  the  old  white-haired  gentleman,  who 
never  stirred,  nor  uttered  any  sound,  as  though  the 
chanting  of  the  priest  had  already  lulled  him  to  his 
infinite  sleep. 

They  all  knelt  down  by  the  bedside,  buried  their 
faces  in  their  hands,  and  the  chanting  continued. 

What  thoughts  passed  through  the  minds  of  those 
two  who  knelt  there,  playing  their  part,  acting  the 
life  which  both  of  them  knew  could  never  be  real, 
it  would  be  impossible  to  say.  In  the  face  of  death, 
the  mind  has  such  simple  thoughts,  that  words 
can  scarcely  touch  their  expression.  Remorse  may 
have  scourged  them;  it  may  have  been  that,  in  see- 
ing the  peaceful  passing  of  his  spirit,  they  were 
satisfied  that  what  they  did  was  for  the  best;  or, 
in  the  deepest  secrets  of  their  hearts  they  may  have 
been  longing  that  it  all  were  true.  Yet,  there  they 
both  knelt,  with  the  little  old  white-haired  lady  by 
their  side.  For  all  the  world  you  might  have 
thought,  as  did  all  the  others  in  the  room,  that  they 
were  husband  and  wife  on  the  very  threshold  of  that 
journey  through  the  years  of  which  this  death-bed 
meeting  was  the  gate  where  all  must  pass  out  into 
the  land  that  is  in  the  blue  haze  beyond. 

Presently,  the  voice  of  the  priest  became  silent. 
The  heads  of  all  sank  lower  in  their  hands  as  the 
Extreme  Unction  was  given.     God  visits  the  earth 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    315 

in  great  silences.  It  was  a  wonderful  silence  then. 
The  wine  gurgling  softly  into  the  cup,  the  unfolding 
of  the  little  napkin,  the  patten  lying  on  the  tongue, 
the  last  brave  effort  as  the  old  gentleman  swallowed 
the  sacred  bread,  were  all  noises  that  thrilled  and 
quivered   in   that  silence. 

Then  it  was  all  passed,  all  finished,  the  spirit 
cleansed,  the  last  gentle  confession  made  of  such  sins 
of  thought  and  deed  as  a  brave  and  generous  gen- 
tleman is  capable  of.  The  priest  rose  to  his  feet 
and,  taking  his  little  vessels  with  him  in  their  case, 
stole  quietly  from  the  room.  A  moment  or  so 
passed  in  still  deeper  silence.  At  last  Claudina  rose. 
She  crossed  herself  as  she  passed  the  little  altar, 
crept  also  to  the  door  and  went  away. 

Now  the  silence  was  still  deeper  than  before,  as 
though,  in  the  mere  functions  of  their  living,  these 
two  had  taken  with  them  their  disturbing  elements  of 
full-blooded  life  from  this  place  where  life  was  so 
fainting  and  so  weak.  When  they  had  gone,  the 
very  vibrations  of  air  seemed  more  still  and  a  greater 
quietness  fell  with  their  absence. 

And  the  three  who  remained,  continued  there  mo- 
tionless on  their  knees — motionless,  until,  in  the  midst 
of  the  silence,  came  the  whispering  of  a  tired  voice 
— a  voice,  pronouncing  with  infinite  difficulty,  one, 
single  word, 

"  John— John." 

John  knelt  quickly  upright.  He  stretched  out  his 
hand  and  found  a  hand  to  meet  it,  a  hand  that 
could  not  hold,  that  only  lay  in  tender  submission 
upon  his  own. 


816    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"  Father,"  he  said ;  and  that,  after  all,  is  the  only 
word  that  a  son  can  say — father  or  mother — they 
are  the  last  words  left  in  the  deepest  heart  of  a  man. 
He  utters  them,  incoherently  almost,  when  emotion 
is  choking  speech. 

"  Where  is  Jill  ?  "  the  voice  whispered  again. 

Jill  crept  round  on  her  knees  to  his  side.  With 
one  hand  below  in  the  darkness,  John  held  hers.  They 
clasped  them  and  unclasped  them  as  the  sobs  rose 
and  broke  silently  in  their  throats. 

The  old  gentleman's  eyes  took  a  light  into  them, 
as  he  saw  their  heads  together  by  his  bedside. 
With  a  great  effort,  he  strained  himself  to  rise  upon 
one  elbow  in  the  bed  and,  laying  the  other  hand  upon 
their  heads,  he  whispered  that  blessing  which  it  has 
been  in  the  power  of  the  father  to  give  from  time 
immemorial. 

"  God  bless  you,"  he  whispered.  "  Make  your  lives 
out  of  love,  as  I  have  made  mine.  Make  your  chil- 
dren out  of  love,  as  I  have  made  mine.  Make  your 
work  out  of  love — as  I  have  made  mine." 

His  voice  burnt  low,  but  yet  it  burnt.  The  flame 
of  it  was  there.  It  seared  into  the  very  hearts  of 
them.  Jill's  fingers  lay  in  John's  as  a  bird  that  is 
starved  and  cold,  lies  limply  in  the  hand  that  suc- 
cours it.  Her  cheeks  were  ashen  white.  Her  eyes 
stared  wildly  before  her  at  the  pattern  on  the  coun- 
ter-pane and  tears  rolled  from  them  without  heed 
or  stay. 

The  moments  passed  then,  as  the  old  gentleman 
leant  back  upon  his  pillows.  Without  moving, 
they  stayed  there  with  heads  bowed  down  before  him. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    317 

At  last,  he  moved  again.  His  hand  stretched  out 
once  more  and  felt  for  John's. 

"  God  bless  you  my  boy,"  he  said,  as  his  son  bent 
over  him.  **  You've  made  us  very  happy.  You've 
set  your  life  just  as  we  could  wish.  Now  do  your 
work.  I  expect  I  shall  hear  how  you  get  on.  They 
won't  keep  that  from  me.  They'll  let  me  see  your 
first  happy  ending.  It's  the  only  way  to  end — 
like  this.  Now  kiss  me — you  don't  mind — this  time 
— do  you  ?  " 

John  kissed  him,  as  pilgrims  kiss  the  feet  of  God. 

"  And  tell  me "  the  old  gentleman  whispered. 

He  paused  to  breathe  as  the  thought  came  swiftly 
on  him.  "  Tell  me — ^why  did  you  kiss  me — on  the 
forehead — that  night — a  year  ago?  " 

*'  I'd  seen   you  in   the   Treasure   Shop,  sir — and 

I "     the    words    wrestled    in    his     throat — *^  I 

thought  you  were  the  finest  man  I'd  ever  known." 

The  old  gentleman  lay  back  again  upon  his  pil- 
lows. The  light  of  a  great  pride  was  flashing  in 
his  eyes.  His  son  had  called  him — sir.  That  was 
all.  Yet  in  that  moment,  he  felt  like  a  Viking  being 
borne  out  upon  his  burning  ship  into  the  sea  of 
noble  burial.  His  son  had  called  him,  sir.  He  lay 
still,  listening  to  the  great  sound  of  it,  as  it 
trumpeted  triumphantly  in  his  ears.  His  son,  who 
was  going  to  be  far  greater  than  he  had  ever  been, 
whose  work  was  above  and  beyond  all  work  that  he 
had  ever  done — his  son  had  called  him — sir. 

Then,  for  some  time,  everything  was  still  once 
more.  They  bent  their  heads  again  within  their 
hands.    At  last,  the  little  old  white-haired  lady,  like 


SI 8    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

the  queen  in  all  her  wonderful  splendour,  preparing 
for  the  last  suttee,  rose  slowly  to  her  feet. 

Before  she  could  make  her  way  round  to  his  side, 
he  called  breathlessly. 

*'  Marie !  Marie !  "  and  there  was  quickness  in  his 
voice. 

She  hurried  swiftly  to  him  with  withered  hands 
held  out  in  dumb  appeal. 

"  Marie,"  he  whispered — "  It's  coming,  my  be- 
loved.    I  feel  it — in  my  throat.     Cross  me " 

She  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  with  quick  and 
trembling  fingers,  on  his  forehead  and  on  his  breast ; 
then,  sitting  upright  with  his  last  strength,  he  made 
the  sign  upon  her,  as  she  blindly  guided  his  hand — 
just  as  they  had  done  every  night  of  their  life. 

"  God  bless — you — my  dear — one,"  he  muttered 
and  then  he  slipped  slowly  back,  carrying  her  with 
him  as  his  arms  fell  round  her. 

And  there  they  lay  in  the  greatest  silence  of  all. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

THE   CIRCULAR   TOUR 

The  evening,  with  her  quiet  feet,  had  stolen  across 
the  sky;  night  was  fast  riding  in  the  wake  of  her, 
when  at  last  they  left  the  little  old  white-haired 
lady  alone. 

Repeatedly  John  had  offered  to  stay  and  keep 
her  company. 

**  You  may  not  sleep,  dearest,"  he  said  gently. 
**  Someone  had  better  be  with  you." 

"  I  shall  have  Claudina,"  she  replied  with  a  smile 
of  gratitude.  "  And  I  think  I  shall  sleep.  I've 
scarcely  been  to  bed  since  he  was  ill.  I  think  I  shall 
sleep."     And  her  eyes  closed  involuntarily. 

Jill  offered  to  stay,  to  help  her  to  bed,  to  sit  by 
her  side  until  she  slept.  But,  patiently  and  per- 
sistently, she  shook  her  tired,  white  head  and  smiled. 

**  Claudina  understands  my  little  fidgety  ways," 
she  said — "  and  perhaps  I  shall  be  better  with  her." 

Down  the  vast  chamber,  she  walked  with  them 
again  to  the  little  door.  Her  head  was  high  and 
brave,  but  the  heart  within  her  beat  so  faintly  and 
so  still,  that  sometimes,  unseen  by  them,  she  put 
her  hand  upon  her  bodice  to  assure  herself  that  it 
beat  at  all. 

Before  they  pulled  the  heavy  curtain,  she  stopped 
and  took  both  their  hands  in  hers. 

319 


320    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

**  My  dear — dear  children,"  she  whispered,  and  for 
the  first  time  her  voice  quivered.  A  sob  answered  it 
in  Jill's  throat.  She  tried  to  face  the  old  lady's 
eyes,  bright  with  a  strange  and  almost  unnatural 
brilliance,  but  a  thousand  reproaches  cried  at  her 
courage  and  beat  it  back. 

"  My  dear — dear  children,"  said  the  old  lady  once 
more,  and  this  time  her  voice  took  a  new  power  into 
itself.  Her  figure  seemed  to  straighten,  her  eyes 
to  steady  with  resolve* 

"I  have  something  I  want  to  say;  something 
your  father  would  have  said  as  well,  had  there  been 
time.  I  thought  of  waiting  till  to-morrow,  perhaps 
till  he  was  buried.  But  I'm  going  to  say  it  now; 
before  you  can  tell  me  what  I  know  you  mean  to. 
I  discussed  it  all  with  your  father  before  you  came, 
and  he  quite  agreed  with  me."  She  paused.  A 
great,  deep  breath  she  drew,  as  does  a  painter  when 
he  nerves  his  hand.  And  in  the  gathering  darkness 
in  that  great  room,  they  waited  with  all  attention 
expectant. 

"  When  your  father  is  buried,"  she  began  slowly, 
drawing  with  reserve  from  that  long  deep  breath, 
"  I  am  going  to  live  on  here."  Quickly  she  raised 
her  hand  before  John  could  answer.  She  thought 
she  knew  what  he  was  going  to  say.  "  No !  "  she 
said,  "you  must  let  me  finish.  I'm  going  to  live 
on  here.     For  the  next  ten  years,  these  rooms  belong 

to  us — and  ten  years "  she  smiled — "  are  more 

than  I  shall  need.  I  could  not  leave  here.  I  know 
it  so  well.  You  want  me  to  come  and  live  with  you — 
but  no "  the  white  head  shook,  and  a  curl  fell 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    321 

out  of  place  upon  her  cheek.  She  did  not  notice  it. 
"  No — I  know  what  is  best,"  she  went  on.  "  Your 
father  and  I  decided  what  was  right.  Old  people 
have  their  place.  They  should  never  get  in  the  way 
of  the  ones  who  are  just  beginning.  I  shall  be  con- 
tented waiting  here  for  the  year  to  come  round  to 
bring  you  both  to  see  me.  Don't  think  I  shall  be 
discontented.  Claudina  will  take  care  of  me,  and  I 
shall  not  be  in  your  way.  You'll  like  me  all  the 
better  in  the  summer.  I  get  tiresome  in  the  winter. 
I  know  I  do.  He  used  not  to  say  so,  but  Claudioa 
has  to  admit  it.  I  get  colds.  I  have  to  be  looked 
after.  Sometimes  I'm  in  bed  for  days  together  and 
have  to  be  nursed.  All  of  which  things,"  she  added, 
turning  with  a  bright  smile  to  Jill,  "  Claudina  can 
do  so  much  more  easily  than  you.  She's  more  ac- 
customed to  them." 

And  look  at  my  poor  hands,  she  might  have  said, 
how  much  would  you  not  have  to  do  for  me?  You 
would  have  to  dress  me,  to  undress  me,  to  get  me 
up,  to  put  me  to  bed.  But  she  hid  her  hands.  Those 
withered  hands  had  their  pathos  even  for  her.  She 
would  not  press  them  upon  their  notice. 

"  Think  over  what  I've  said,  dear,"  she  concluded, 
looking  up  to  John.  "  Tell  me  what  you've  thought 
about  it  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day.  I  know  all 
this  evening,  it  has  been  in  your  mind  to  tell  me  of 
the  arrangements  you  have  thought  of  making  for 
me  in  your  little  cottage;  but  think  over  it  again, 
from  my  point  of  view.  Understand  it  as  I  do,  and 
I'm  sure  you'll  find  I'm  right." 

And  they  could  say  nothing.    In  silence,  they  had 


822    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

listened  to  all  this  indomitable  courage,  to  this  little 
old  white-haired  lady  preparing  to  face  the  great 
loneliness  after  death.  In  silence,  Jill  had  bent  down 
and  kissed  her.  The  last  lash  had  fallen  upon  her 
then.  She  could  not  speak.  By  the  bedside  of  the 
old  gentleman,  the  utmost  tears  had  tumbled  from 
her  eyes.  And  now  this,  from  the  little  old  lady,  had 
been  more  than  she  could  bear.  That  sensation  which 
they  call  the  breaking  of  the  heart,  was  almost  sti- 
fling the  breath  within  her.  The  whole  army  of  her 
emotions  had  been  thundering  all  this  time  at  the 
gates  of  her  heart.  When  she  had  heard  his  blessing, 
she  had  flung  the  gates  open  wide.  Now,  they  were 
trampling  her  beneath  their  feet.  She  could  not 
rise  above  them.  She  could  not  even  cry  out  loud 
the  remorse  and  pain  she  felt. 

With  John,  this  silence  that  was  forced  upon 
him  was  more  cruel  still.  On  a  scaffold,  set  before 
the  crowd,  he  stood,  listening  to  the  loathing  and 
reproach  that  groaned  in  every  throat.  The  little 
old  lady  was  making  this  sacrifice,  and  yet,  he  knew 
a  thousand  times  that  he  should  not  let  it  be.  To 
stand  there  then  and,  in  that  derisive  silence,  to 
quietly  give  consent,  was  the  utmost  penalty  that  he 
could  pay.  Then,  in  the  teeth  of  all  reproach,  as 
though  to  shut  out  from  his  ears  the  moaning  of  that 
cruel,  relentless  crowd,  he  caught  her  slender  figure 
in  his  arms  and  strained  her  to  him. 

"  My  little  mother,"  he  said  wildly  in  his  breath, 
*'  it  can't  be  like  that — it  can't  be !  Something  must 
be  done.  I'll  think  it  out,  but  something  must  be 
done." 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    323 

Then,  kissing  her  again  and  again,  he  put  her 
down  from  him,  as  you  put  back  a  little  doll  into 
its  cradle — a  little  doll  which  some  thoughtless  hand 
has  treated  ill. 

They  said  no  word  to  each  other  as  they  passed 
through  the  archway  this  time.  In  silence,  they 
stepped  into  the  gondola  which  had  been  wait- 
ing for  them  at  the  steps  for  an  hour  and 
more. 

John  told  him  the  hotel  at  which  Jill  was  staying, 
and  the  gondolier  pushed  out  into  the  black  water. 
Another  moment,  and  they  were  swaying  into  the 
soft  velvet  darkness,  rent  here  and  there  with  little 
points  of  orange  light,  where  a  lamp  burnt  warmly 
in  some  tiny  window. 

"  And  to-morrow,"  said  John  presently,  "  you 
must  go  back.''  Perhaps  that's  the  hardest  part 
of  it." 

"I  shall  not  go  for  a  few  days,"  Jill  replied 
quietly. 

He  looked  quickly  at  her  white  face.  Impulsively 
his  hand  stretched  out  to  hers.  She  stared  before 
her  as  he  took  it.  She  was  like  a  figure  of  ivory, 
set  strangely  in  black  marble,  as  black  as  the  water 
itself.  There  was  no  movement  from  her,  no  stir, 
scarcely  a  sign  of  life. 

"  That's  good  of  you,"  he  said  in  honest  thankful- 
ness. "  You're  being  wonderfully  good  to  me."  Hq 
repeated  it,  ruminating,  with  his  eyes  looking  out 
into  the  distance  where  hers  were  set.  "  But,  I  might 
have  known  you'd  be  that." 

She  shuddered.    Praise  from  him,  then,  hurt  more 


S24.    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

than  all.  She  shuddered  as  if  a  wind  had  chilled 
her. 

After  a  long  pause,  he  moved  and  spoke  again. 

"  How  are  you  going  to  manage  ? "  he  asked. 
"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  shall  write." 

"Home?" 

"  No — to  Mrs.  Crossthwaite." 

"Is  it  safe.?" 

"  I  think  so." 

"  But  you  mustn't  be  discovered,"  he  said  quickly. 
Conscience  pulled  him  first  one  way,  then  another. 
Every  instinct  prompted  him  to  accept  her  generosity 
without  question.  You  must  not  take  too 
great  a  risk.  Why,  indeed,  should  you  take 
any  ?  " 

The  words  came  slowly.  He  felt  both  glad  and 
sorry  when  once  they  were  spoken.  The  tragedy  of 
life  is  indecision.  They  bury  suicides  at  the  cross- 
roads, for  that  is  where  lurks  all  tragedy — the  in- 
decision of  which  way  to  choose. 

At  last,  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him. 
The  hand  he  held  quickened  with  feeling.  It  became 
alive.     He  felt  the  fingers  tighten  on  his  own. 

"You  are  thinking  of  me?"  she  said. 

**  I  must,"  he  replied. 

"  You  feel  it  your  duty  because  I'm  here  alone?  '* 

He  shook  his  head. 

**  I  don't  feel  duty,"  he  answered.  "  There  is  no 
such  thing.  People  do  what  they  do.  When  it  is  a 
disagreeable  thing  to  do,  they  make  it  worth  the 
doing  by  calling  it  duty.     That  is  the  satisfaction 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    325 

they  get  out  of  it.  But  everything  that  is  done, 
is  done  for  love — ^love  of  self  or  love  of  other  people. 
Duty  is  the  name  that  enhances  the  value  of  disagree- 
able things.  But  it's  only  a  name.  There's  nothing 
behind  it — nothing  human,  nothing  real.  I  don't 
feel  duty  as  some  do,  and  so  I  never  attempt  any- 
thing that's  disagreeable.  A  thing  that  is  weighed 
is  repugnant  to  me.  Just  now  things  are  very  hard 
■ — just  now  I  scarcely  know  which  way  to  turn. 
The  little  old  white-haired  lady  puts  her  arms  round 
me  and  I  feel  I  can't  let  her  go.  You  hold  my  hand 
and  I  feel  that  I  would  move  heaven  and  earth  to 
save  you  from  a  moment's  unhappiness."  Reluc- 
tantly, he  let  go  her  hand  and  sat  upright.  "  Here 
we  are;  I  say  good-night  here.  You  must  think 
before  you  write  that  letter." 

She  put  out  a  detaining  hand. 

**  Tell  him  to  go  back  to  your  rooms,"  she  said 
■ — "  I'll  take  you  back  there  before  I  go  in.  I've 
got  a  lot  to  say." 

John  smiled  incredulously.  He  could  have  asked 
heaven  for  no  greater  gift.  His  heart  was  sick. 
There  was  nothing  but  disillusionment  to  which  he 
could  look  forward.  His  own  disillusionment  had 
come  already ;  but  that  of  the  little  old  white- 
haired  lady  was  harder  to  bear  than  his  own. 
Stretching  before  him,  an  ugly  shadow,  he  saw  the 
unswerving  promise  of  that  day  when  he  must  tell 
her  all  the  truth ;  that  day,  a  year  perhaps  to  come, 
when,  arriving  in  Venice  without  Jill,  he  must  ex- 
plain her  absence,  either  by  another  fabrication  or 
the  naked  fact. 


326    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

To  hide  his  face  from  it  all  a  little  longer;  to 
have  Jill's  presence  closing  his  eyes  to  it,  even  though 
it  were  only  for  a  speck  of  time  in  the  eternity  that 
was  to  follow,  was  a  reprieve  for  which  he  had  not 
dared  to  hope. 

"  You  mean  that?  "  he  said  eagerly. 

"  Yes." 

John  gave  the  order.  The  gondolier  did  not  smile. 
Perhaps  the  motion  of  his  oar  as  he  swung  them 
round  was  a  gentle  comment.  Every  man  has  his 
different  medium  of  expression.  There  was  once  a 
ballet  dancer  who,  whenever  she  became  excited  and 
was  driven  to  gesticulation,  always  caught  her  skirt 
just  below  the  knee  and  lifted  it  to  show  her  in- 
step. It  meant  more  than  any  words  she  could  ever 
have  uttered. 

John  sat  back  again  by  Jill's  side. 

"  Oh !  it's  good,"  he  said,  half  aloud,  half  to 
himself. 

"  What  is  good.''  "  she  whispered. 

"  To  be  just  a  little  while  longer  with  you.  I 
dread  to-night,  I  dread  the  next  few  nights  to  come. 
I  shall  see  his  eyes.  I  shall  hear  that  sound  in  his 
voice  when  he  called  to  her.  I  shall  see  that  brave 
look  in  her  face,  and  hear  that  whole  speech  of  her 
sacrifice  as  we  stood  by  the  door.  My  God!  What 
wonderful  things  women  can  be  when  they  love." 

"  She's  so  gentle  and  yet  so  brave,"  said  Jill. 

"  Brave ! "  he  echoed  it,  but  it  had  not  the  force 
of  all  he  felt.  "  Great  Heavens !  Think  of  her 
there  now,  alone.  Everything  but  us  gone  out  of 
her  life;  a  sudden  rent  in  the  clouds — ^just  a  flashy 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    327 

and  but  for  us,  in  that  moment  she's  made  destitute. 
And  then,  with  a  smile  in  her  eyes,  to  give  up  what 
little  she  has.  And  I,  to  have  to  accept  it.  Lord! 
what  a  fool  I've  been,  I  remember  that  day  when 
Mrs.  Morrell's  sandy  cat  came  slouching  into  the 
room  and  I'd  just  received  the  letter  saying  she 
would  write  no  more  of  you.  I  took  that  confounded 
cat  into  my  confidence — ^"  The  little  old  lady  wants 
a  love  story,"  I  said.  And  the  cat  seemed  to  wink 
as  though  it  had  no  objection  to  hearing  one,  too. 
Then  I  began.  Lord!  what  a  child  I  am.  Not  the 
faintest  idea  of  the  future !  No  conception  of  con- 
sequence !  Just  a  blind  idea  of  doing  things  as  they 
come,  without  the  smallest  consideration  of  results  I 
I  never  foresaw  that  it  was  going  to  lead  to  this. 
What  a  child !  My  heavens !  What  a  child !  He  was 
a  child!  She's  a  child!  I'm  a  child,  too!  We're  a 
family  of  children,  not  fit  for  one  of  the  responsibili- 
ties of  life." 

"  Do  you  think  you're  any  the  worse  for  that.''  " 
she  asked  softly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
**  Upon  my  soul,  it  seems  now  the  greatest  crime 
a  man  can  commit.  In  a  world  of  grown-up  men 
and  women  who  can  pay  their  rents  and  taxes, 
meet  their  bills  and  save  their  money,  to  be  a  child 
is  a  monstrous,  a  heinous  crime." 

"  Only  to  those  who  don't  understand,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"  Well — and  who  does  ?  " 

« I  do." 

**  You  do?    Yes,  I  know  that — ^but  how  can  you 


328    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

help?  You've  done  more  than  a  thousand  women 
would  have  done.  You  helped  me  to  make  his  pass- 
ing a  happy  one;  you  can't  do  more  than  that. 
You're  even  going  to  stay  on  a  few  days  longer  to 
help  this  fool  of  a  child  still  more.  That  proves 
you  understand.  I  know  you  understand — God  bless 
you." 

He  shrank  into  himself  despairingly.  His  whole 
body  seemed  to  contract  in  the  pain  of  self-con- 
demnation, and  he  pressed  his  hands  violently  over 
his  eyes.  Suddenly,  he  felt  her  move.  He  took  his 
hands  away  and  found  her  kneeling  at  his  feet,  that 
white  face  of  ivory  turned  up  to  his,  her  eyes  dimmed 
with  tears. 

"  Do  you  call  it  understanding  if  I  leave  you  now 
— little  child  ?  "  she  whispered,  and  her  voice  was  like 
the  sound  in  a  long-dreamt  dream  which,  on  the 
morning,  he  had  forgotten  and  striven  to  remember 
ever  since. 

Slowly,  he  took  away  his  hands.  Now  he  recalled 
the  voice.  The  whole  dream  came  back.  It  was  sum- 
mer— summer  in  England.  They  were  in  a  field 
where  cattle  grazed  under  the  warm  shadows  of  high 
elm  trees.  Cowslips  grew  there,  standing  up  through 
the  grass  with  their  thin,  white,  velvet  stems ;  here 
and  there  an  orchid  with  spotted  leaves,  a  group  of 
scabii  bending  their  feathered  heads  in  the  heat  of 
the  day.  Jill  sat  sewing  little  garments,  and  he  lay 
idle,  stretched  upon  his  back,  gazing  up  into  the  end- 
less blue  where  the  white  clouds  sailed  like  little  ships, 
making  for  distant  harbours.  And  as  she  sewed,  she 
talked  of  things  more  wonderful  than  God  had  made 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    329 

the  day;  of  things  that  women,  in  the  most  sacred 
moments  of  their  life,  sometimes  reveal  to  men. 

This  was  the  dream  he  had  forgotten.  In  his 
sleep,  he  had  known  that  it  was  a  dream ;  had  known 
that  he  must  remember  it  all  his  life;  yet  in  the 
morning,  but  faintly  recollected  he  had  dreamt  at 
all.  Now,  those  two  words  of  hers — little  child — and 
the  summer  day,  the  browsing  cattle,  the  white  flut- 
ter of  the  tiny  garments,  the  scent  of  the  fields  and 
the  sound  of  her  voice  had  all  returned  in  one  swift 
rush  of  memory. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked  slowl}'^ — ^**  if  you 
leave  me  now,  what  do  you  mean.?  What  do  you 
mean  by — -little  child?  " 

Both  hands,  she  put  out ;  both  hands  to  clasp  on 
his.  The  tears  ceased  gathering  in  her  eyes.  Be- 
fore God  and  in  great  moments,  the  eyes  forget  their 
tears ;  there  is  no  trembling  of  the  lips ;  the  voice 
is  clear  and  true. 

"Don't  you  remember  what  he  said.''"  she  asked. 
"  *  Make  your  lives  out  of  love,  as  I  have  made  mine. 
Make  your  children  out  of  love  as  I  have  made 
mine.'  Did  you  think  I  could  hear  that  from  him 
without  knowing  what  you  yourself  have  said  just 
now,  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  Duty,?  " 

John  stared  at  her.  He  dared  not  interpose.  He 
dared  not  even  answer  the  question  she  had  asked, 
for  fear  his  voice  should  break  the  linking  of  her 
thoughts. 

"  Can  you  hear  him  saying — *  Make  your  lives 
out  of  duty,  as  •  I  have  made  mine.  Make  your 
children  out  of  duty  as  I  have  made  mine?'     Can 


830    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

you  imagine  him  saying  that?  Can  you  feel  how  it 
would  have  grated  on  your  ears?  Yet  that's  just 
what  I'm  going  to  do;  but  I  didn't  realise  it  till 
then." 

"  What  is  it  you're  going  to  say?  "  he  asked  be- 
low his  breath.  "  What  is  it  you're  leading  to  ? 
All  this  is  leading  to  something.     What  is  it?  " 

"  That  I'm  not  going  to  leave  you,  little  child. 
That  if,  after  all,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  Duty,  he 
has  shown  me  what  it  is." 

The  gondola  bumped  against  the  steps.  The  voice 
of  the  gondolier  called  out  that  their  destination  was 
reached.     John  rose  quickly  to  his  feet. 

"  Go  back,"  he  said.     "  Go  back  to  the  hotel." 

Away  they  started  again  and  as  he  plied  his  oar, 
the  gondolier  gazed  up  at  the  stars,  and  hummed  a 
muffled  tune. 

For  a  few  moments,  John  remained  standing.  She 
was  not  going  to  leave  him.  She  was  never  going 
to  leave  him.  That  was  the  big  thought,  triumphant 
in  his  mind.  But  a  thousand  little  thoughts,  like 
grains  of  dust  in  a  great  sunbeam,  danced  and 
whirled  about  it.  He  thought  of  those  rooms  of  his 
in  Fetter  Lane;  of  his  own  improvidence,  of  the  dis- 
reputable appearance  of  Mrs.  Morrell  on  Saturday 
mornings  when  she  cleaned  the  stairs  of  the  house, 
and  conversed,  in  language  none  too  refined,  with 
Miss  Morrell.  He  thought  of  the  impudence  of  Mrs. 
Brown,  when  she  appeared  in  curling  papers  and 
made  remarks  about  her  neighbours  with  a  choice  of 
words  that  can  only  be  said  to  go  with  that  particu- 
lar adornment  of  the  hair. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    331 

But  these  were  only  cavilling  considerations,  which 
made  the  big  thought  real.  He  could  change  his 
address.  Now,  indeed,  he  could  go  down  to  Hare- 
field.  He  could  work  twice  as  hard;  he  could  make 
twice  as  much  money.  All  these  things,  ambition 
will  easily  overcome  in  the  face  of  so  big  a  thought 
as  this.     She  was  never  going  to  leave  him. 

He  took  her  hands  as  he  sat  down. 

"  Do  you  think  you  realise  everything?  "  he  said; 
for  the  first  instinct  of  the  grateful  recipient  is 
to  return  the  gift.  He  does  not  mean  to  give  it 
back;  but  neither  does  he  quite  know  how  to 
take  it. 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"All  my  circumstances?     How  poor  I  am?" 

**  Everything." 

«  And  still ?  " 

"  And  still,"  she  replied.  "  Nothing  but  your  ask- 
ing could  change  me." 

He  sat  gazing  at  her,  just  holding  her  hands. 
Only  in  real  stories  do  people  at  such  a  moment  fall 
into  each  other's  arms.  When  the  matter  is  really 
nonsense,  then  people  act  differently — perhaps  they 
are  more  reserved — possibly  the  wonder  of  it  all  is 
greater  then. 

John  sat  silently  beside  her  and  tried  to  under- 
stand. It  was  so  unexpected.  He  had  scarcely  even 
wished  that  it  might  be  so. 

"  When  did  you  think  this  ?  "  he  asked  presently. 

*'  Just — before  he  died." 

*'  When   he   blessed  us  ?  " 

"  Yes." 


332    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

"Why  haven't  you  said  so  before?" 

*'  I  couldn't.     I  haven't  been  able  to  speak.     I've 

suddenly  seen  things  real " 

"  In  the  midst  of  all  this  nonsense '* 


"  Yes — and  it's  taken  my  breath  away.  All  in 
a  few  hours,  I've  seen  death  and  love,  and  I  don't 
know  what  the  change  is  in  me,  but  I'm  different. 
I've  grown  up.  I  understand.  You  say  I  have  un- 
derstood before ;  but  I've  understood  nothing.  I 
should  never  have  come  here  last  year,  if  I  had  un- 
derstood. I  should  never  have  continued  meeting  you 
in  Kensington  Gardens,  if  I  had  understood.  Women 
don't  understand  as  a  rule ;  no  girl  understands.  She 
would  never  play  with  love,  if  she  did.  I  know,  sud- 
denly, that  I  belong  to  you;  that  I  have  no  right 
to  marry  anyone  else.  In  these  last  few  hours,  I've 
felt  that  a  force  outside  me  determines  the  giving 
of  my  life,  and  it  has  frightened  me.  I  couldn't  say 
anything.  When  you  said  you  were  a  child,  then  I 
suddenly  found  my  tongue.  I  wasn't  afraid  any 
more.  I  knew  you  were  a  child,  my  child — my  little 
child — not  my  master.  There's  no  mastery  in  it; 
you're  just  my  child." 

Suddenly  she  closed  her  arms  round  him;  she 
buried  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"  I  can't  explain  any  more ! "  she  whispered — 
*'  It's  something  I  can't  explain — ^I  haven't  any 
words  for  it." 

And,  as  he  held  her  to  him,  John  thought  of  the 
dream  he  had  dreamt,  of  the  field  and  the  cattle, 
and  the  white  fluttering  of  the  tiny  garemnts,  and  the 
clouds  sailing  in  the  sky,  and  again  came  to  him 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    3S3 

the  note  in  her  voice  as  she  told  him  the  most  won- 
derful thing  in  the  whole  world.  Then,  leaning 
out  from  the  hood,  he  called  out  to  the  gondolier: 

"  Just  take  us  out  on  the  Lagoon  before  we  go 
back." 

And  they  swung  round  again  to  his  oar. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 

A    PROCESS    OF    HONESTY 

The  very  best  of  us  have  a  strain  of  selfishness. 
The  most  understanding  of  us  are  unable  to  a  nicety 
to  grasp  the  other  person's  point  of  view ;  and  there 
will  always  be  some  little  thing,  some  subtle  matter, 
which  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  us  to  perceive  in 
the  nature  of  someone  else.  Perhaps  this  is  the 
surest  proof  of  the  existence  of  the  soul. 

When,  on  the  steps  of  the  hotel,  John  bid  good- 
night to  Jill,  there  was  but  one  rgret  in  the  minds 
of  both  of  them,  that  that  blessing  which  they  had 
received  at  the  hands  of  the  old  gentleman  had 
come  too  soon ;  that  in  the  receipt  of  it,  they  had 
been  impostors,  unworthy  of  so  close  a  touch  with 
the  Infinite. 

There  is  nothing  quite  so  distressing  to  the  honest 
mind  as  this  and,  to  avoid  it,  to  mitigate  the  of- 
fence, it  is  quite  a  simple  process  for  the  honest  mind 
to  project  itself  into  some  further  evil  of  selfishness, 
so  long  as  it  may  gain  peace  and  a  free  conscience. 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  that  we  can  do,"  said 
John,  and,  if  good  intentions  weigh,  however  lightly, 
in  the  sensitive  scales  of  justice,  let  one  be  here 
placed  in  the  balance  for  him. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,"  replied 
JiU. 

SM 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    335 

Of  course  she  knew.  They  had  begun  to  think 
alike  already. 

«  We  must  tell  her." 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"  We  can't  deceive  her,"  he  went  on — "  It*s  bad 
enough  to  have  deceived  him.  And  now — ^well,  it*s 
such  a  different  matter  now.  She  must  understand. 
Don't  you  think  she  will.''  " 

With  a  gentle  pressure  of  his  hand,  she  agreed. 

They  both  pictured  her  glad  of  the  knowledge, 
because  in  the  hearts  of  them  both,  they  were  so  glad 
to  be  able  to  tell.  For  this  is  how  the  honest  deceive 
themselves,  by  super-imposing  upon  another,  that 
state  of  mind  which  is  their  own.  With  all  belief, 
they  thought  the  little  old  white-haired  lady  must 
be  glad  when  she  heard ;  with  all  innocence  and  ig- 
norance of  human  nature,  they  conceived  of  her 
gratitude  that  such  an  ending  had  been  brought 
about. 

"  When  shall  we  tell  her.?  "  asked  Jill. 

"  Oh — not  at  once.  In  a  day  or  so.  The  day 
you  go,  perhaps." 

"  And  you  think  she'll  forgive  me  ?  " 

He  smiled  at  her  tenderly  for  her  question. 

"  Do  you  think  you  know  anything  about  the 
little  old  white-haired  lady  when  you  ask  that.'' 
I'll  just  give  you  an  example.  She  abominates 
drunkenness — loathes  it — in  theory  has  no  pity  for 
it,  finds  no  excuse.  Well,  they  had  a  gardener  once, 
when  they  were  better  off.  There's  not  a  school  for 
the  trade  in  Venice,  as  you  can  imagine.  Tito  knew 
absolutely  nothing.     He  was  worthless.     He  was  as 


336    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

likely  as  not  to  pull  up  the  best  plant  in  the  gar- 
den and  think  it  was  a  weed.  But  there  he  was. 
Well,  one  day  Claudina  reported  he  was  drunk. 
Drunk!  Tito  drunk!  In  their  garden!  Oh,  but  it 
was  horrible — it  was  disgusting !  She  could  scarcely 
believe  that  it  was  true.  But  Claudina's  word  had 
to  be  taken  and  Tito  must  go.  She  could  not  even 
bear  to  think  he  was  still  about  the  place. 

"  Tito — I  have  heard  so  and  so — is  it  true?  "  she 
said. 

Well — Tito  talked  about  not  feeling  well  and 
things  disagreeing  with  him.    At  last  he  admitted  it. 

"  Then  you  must  go,"  said  she — "  I  give  you  a 
week's  wages." 

But  a  piteous  look  came  into  Tito's  face  and 
he  bent  his  head  and  he  begged — "  Oh,  don't  send 
me  away,  egregia  signora!  "  and  that  cry  of  his 
went  so  much  to  her  heart,  that  she  almost  took 
his  head  on  her  shoulder  in  her  pity  for  him.  And 
you  say — will  she  forgive  you.?  Why,  her  capacity 
for  forgiveness  is  infinite!  I  often  think,  when  they 
talk  of  the  sins  that  God  cannot  pardon,  I  often 
think  of  her." 

She  looked  up  and  smiled. 

**  Do  you  always  tell  a  little  story  when  you  want 
to  explain  something?  "  she  asked. 

"  Always,"  said  he—"  to  little  children." 

She  shut  her  eyes  to  feel  the  caress  in  the  words. 

"  Well,  then,"  she  said,  opening  them  again — 
"  we  tell  her  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

**  That  is  the  day  you  go  ?  " 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    337 

"  Yes — I  must  go  then.  And  may  I  say  one 
thing?  " 

*' May  you?  You  may  say  everything  but  one." 

"What  is  that?" 

*'  That  I  have  been  dreaming  all  this  to-night." 

*'  No,  you  haven't  been  dreaming.  It  was  all 
real." 

"  Then — what  do  you  want  to  say?  " 

"  That  the  little  old  white-haired  lady  is  not  to 
live  alone.  I'm  going  to  live  with  her  as  much  of 
the  year  as  you'll  let  me — all  of  it  if  you  will." 

For  one  moment,  he  was  silent — a  moment  of  reali- 
sation, not  of  doubt. 

"  God  seems  to  have  given  me  so  much  In  this 
last  hour,"  he  said,  "  that  nothing  I  could  offer 
would  appear  generous  after  such  a  gift.  It  shall 
be  all  the  year,  if  you  wish  it.  I  owe  her  that  and 
more.  But  for  her,  perhaps,  this  would  never  have 
been." 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  his  lips  to  it. 

*'  Good-night,  sweetheart.  And  the  day  after  to- 
morrow then,  we  tell  her  everything." 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 

THE   END    OF   THE    LOOM 

When  the  little  door  had  closed  behind  them,  the 
old  lady  stood  with  head  inclined,  listening  to  the 
sound  of  their  footsteps.  Then,  creeping  to  the 
high  window  that  looked  over  the  Rio  Marin, — 
that  same  window  at  which,  nearly  a  year  before, 
she  had  stood  with  her  husband  watching  Jill's 
departure — she  pressed  her  face  against  the  glass, 
straining  her  eyes  to  see  them  to  the  end. 

It  was  very  dark.  For  a  moment,  as  John  helped 
Jill  into  the  gondola,  she  could  distinguish  their 
separate  figures ;  but  then,  the  deep  shadow  beneath 
the  hood  enveloped  them  and  hid  them  from  her  gaze. 
Yet  still  she  stayed  there;  still  she  peered  out  over 
the  water  as,  with  that  graceful  sweeping  of  the 
oar,  they  swung  round  and  swayed  forward  into  the 
mystery  of  the  shadow  beyond. 

To  the  last  moment  when,  melting  Into  the  dark- 
ness, they  became  the  darkness  itself,  she  remained, 
leaning  against  the  sill,  watching,  as  they  watch, 
who  long  have  ceased  to  see.  And  for  some  time 
after  they  had  disappeared,  her  white  face  and  still 
whiter  hair  were  pressed  against  the  high  window 
in  that  vast  chamber,  as  if  she  had  forgotten  why  it 
was  she  was  there  and  stood  in  waiting  for  her 
memory  to  return. 

338 


I'HE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    339 

Such  an  impression  she  might  have  given,  had  you 
come  upon  her,  looking  so  lost  and  fragile  in  that 
great  room.  But  in  her  mind,  there  was  no  want 
of  memory.      She  remembered  everything. 

It  is  not  always  the  philosopher  who  makes  the 
best  out  of  the  saddest  moments  in  life.  Women 
can  be  pliilosophic ;  the  little  old  white-haired  lady 
was  philosophic  then,  as  she  stood  gazing  out  into 
the  empty  darkness.  And  yet,  no  woman  is  really  a 
philosopher.  To  begin  with,  there  is  no  heart  in 
such  matter  at  all;  it  is  the  dried  wisdom  of  bitter- 
ness, from  which  the  burning  sun  of  reason  has 
sucked  all  blood,  all  nourishment.  And  that  which 
has  no  heart  in  it,  is  no  fit  food  for  a  woman.  For  a 
woman  is  all  heart,  or  she  is  nothing.  If  she  can 
add  two  and  two  together,  and  make  a  calculation  of 
it,  then  let  her  do  it,  but  not  upon  one  page  in  your 
life,  if  you  value  the  paper  upon  which  that  hfe 
be  written.  For  once  she  sees  that  she  can  add 
aright,  she  brings  her  pen  to  all  else.  The  desire 
of  power,  to  a  woman  who  has  touched  it,  is  a 
disease. 

But  it  was  other  than  the  calculation  of  philosophy 
which  sustained  the  mind  of  the  little  old  lady  at 
this,  the  saddest  and  the  most  lonely  moment  of  her 
Hfe. 

As  she  leant,  gazing  out  of  the  window  down  the 
black  line  of  water  that  lost  itself  in  the  silent  gath- 
ering of  the  houses,  there  almost  was  triumph  in 
her  mind.  She  had  lost  everything,  but  she  had  done 
everything.  She  was  utterly  alone ;  but  only  be- 
cause she  had  outlived  her  world.     And  last  of  all, 


840    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

there  was  triumph  in  her  heart,  because  her  world 
was  complete.  She  could  have  asked  nothing  more 
of  it.  Her  Romance  was  rekindled.  If  there  was 
anything  to  live  for,  it  was  to  see  the  flames  leap- 
ing up  in  some  other  brazier — those  flames  which 
she  had  given  the  spark  of  her  life  to  ignite.  And 
had  she  not  seen  them  rising  already.''  Had  she  not 
seen  the  fire  blessed  by  the  only  hand  to  whom  the 
power  of  blessing  is  given?  For  all  she  knew,  for 
all  she  dared  to  guess,  the  old  gentleman's  blessing 
had  fallen  upon  a  future,  further  distant  than,  per- 
haps, he  dreamed  of.  What  more  had  desire  to  ask 
for  than  that.? 

She  remembered  how,  in  those  days  of  doubt  and 
troubling,  she  had  counted  in  fear  the  time  which 
was  left  in  which  John  should  take  his  wife.  She 
remembered  doubting  that  they  might  even  live  to 
see  the  realisation  of  such  happiness  as  that. 

They  were  old  people.  There  had  no  longer  been 
certainty  for  them  in  the  counting  of  the  years. 
And,  as  this  very  day  had  proved,  John's  marriage 
had  come  none  too  soon.  Had  it  been  later,  had 
they  not  received  that  blessing  to  which,  with  all 
such  things  as  the  flights  of  magpies  and  the  turn- 
ings of  the  moon,  this  simple  soul  of  hers  gave 
magic  virtue,  then,  indeed,  she  might  have  looked  sor- 
rowfully out  of  the  high  window  in  the  great  room. 

But  no — there  had  been  no  such  mischance  as 
that.  The  vivid  sense  of  completeness  filled  her 
heart  and  raised  the  beating  of  it  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, as  the  hope  of  a  dying  priest  is  raised  by 
the  presentation  of  his  beloved  cross. 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    341 

Aiid  this  is  the  philosophy,  the  stoicism  of  women, 
who  will  face  the  fearsome  emptiness  of  a  whole 
desert  of  life,  so  be  it,  that  their  heart  is  full  and 
satisfied. 

Who,  passing  below  on  the  black  strip  of  water 
and,  seeing  her  pale,  white  face  looking  out  from 
that  high  window  into  the  night,  could  have  con- 
ceived of  such  wonderful  reconciliation  as  this?  Who 
could  have  imagined  the  whole  moment  as  it  was? 
An  old  gentleman  lying  in  a  tiny  room,  the  lamp 
still  burning  on  the  altar  at  his  side,  his  hands 
crossed  upon  his  breast  in  an  unbreaking  sleep ; 
away  out  upon  the  water  of  the  Lagoon,  two  lovers, 
young,  alight  with  life,  exalted  in  a  sudden  realisa- 
tion of  happiness,  and  this  little  old  white-haired 
lady,  alone  in  that  great,  high-ceilinged  room,  with 
its  heavy,  deep-coloured  curtains  and  its  massive 
pictures  hanging  on  the  wall  and  in  the  heart  of  her, 
a  great  uplifting  thankfulness  in  the  midst  of  such 
absolute  desolation  as  this,  a  thankfulness  that  her 
life  was  a  great,  an  all-comprehending  fulfilment, 
that  her  greatest  work  was  done,  her  highest  de- 
sire reached — who,  in  the  first  inspiration  of  their 
imagination,  seeing  that  frail  white  face  pressed  close 
against  the  window  pane,  could  have  conjured  to 
their  mind  such  a  moment  as  this? 

And  yet,  these  simple  things  are  life.  A  face  peer- 
ing from  a  window,  a  hand  trembling  at  a  touch, 
a  sudden  laugh,  a  sudden  silence,  they  all  may  hide 
the  greatest  history,  if  one  had  but  the  eyes  to 
read. 

For  more  than  half-an-hour  she  remained  there 


S42     THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

without  movement  almost,  except  when  she  pressed 
her  hand  inquiringly  to  her  breast  to  feel  for  the 
beating  of  her  heart.  At  last,  with  a  little  shudder, 
as  though,  in  that  moment,  she  realised  the  vast 
space  of  emptiness  in  the  great  room  behind  her,  she 
moved  away. 

Still  her  steps  were  steady,  still  her  head  was  high, 
as  she  walked  back  to  the  little  room  where,  evening 
after  evening,  year  after  year,  the  old  gentleman 
had  sat  with  her  and  talked,  until  the  time  came 
when  they  must  go  to  bed.  For  with  old  people,  as 
you  know,  it  comes  to  be  a  state  of — must — they 
must  go  to  bed.  It  is  not  kind  to  tell  them  so,  but 
there  it  is. 

The  room  was  disordered;  for  a  time  of  sickness 
is  as  a  time  of  siege — the  time  when  Death  lays 
siege  upon  a  house  and  there  are  no  moments  left 
to  put  things  as  they  were. 

On  any  other  occasion,  she  would  have  fretted  at 
the  sight.  The  world  is  sometimes  all  compassed 
in  an  old  lady's  work-basket,  and  to  upset  that,  is 
to  turn  the  world  upside  down.  But  now,  as  she 
saw  all  the  untidiness,  the  little  old  white-haired 
lady  only  sighed.  She  took  her  accustomed  chair 
and,  seating  herself,  stared  quietly  at  the  chair  that 
was  empty,  the  chair  that  was  still  placed,  just  as 
he  had  left  it  that  morning  when,  going  down  to 
see  to  his  garden  and  to  speak  to  Tito,  he  had  fallen 
in  the  great  room  outside,  and  they  had  carried  him 
straight  to  his  bed. 

Now  it  was  empty.  The  whole  room  was  empty. 
She  heard  sounds,  sounds  in  Venice,  sounds  that  she 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    343 

had  never  realised  before.  She  heard  the  clock  tick- 
ing and  wondered  why  she  had  never  heard  that. 
She  heard  Claudina  moving  in  the  kitchen.  She 
heard  the  voice  of  a  gondolier  singing  on  the  canal. 

Presently,  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  walked  slowly 
to  a  drawer  that  had  long  been  closed.  Opening  it, 
she  took  out  some  part  of  an  old  lace  shawl,  unfin- 
ished, where  it  had  been  laid  from  that  moment  when 
God  had  withered  her  hands  and  she  was  powerless 
to  do  her  work. 

Bringing  it  with  her,  she  came  back  to  her  chair ; 
sat  doAvn  and  laid  it  on  her  lap.  This  was  the  only 
thing  incomplete  in  her  life.  Memory  became  sud- 
denly vivid  as  she  looked  at  it.  She  almost  remem- 
bered— perhaps  pretended  that  she  did  recall — the 
last  stitch  where  she  had  left  off. 

And  there,  when  she  came  in  for  her  unfailing 
ceremony,  Claudina  found  her,  gazing  towards  the 
door  with  the  unfinished  lace  shawl  in  her  hands. 

The  little  white  head  moved  quickly,  the  eyes 
lighted  for  one  sudden  moment  of  relief 

"  Surely  it's  after  ten  o'clock,  Claudina,"  she  said. 

And  Claudina  shook  her  head  gravely. 

"  No,  signora.  It  wants  some  minutes  yet.  But 
I  thought  if  Giovanino  was  gone,  you  ought  to  go 
to  bed." 

They  had  prepared  another  little  room  for  her  to 
sleep  in ;  but  she  insisted  first  upon  going  to  see 
him  once  more. 

By  the  light  of  the  altar  lamp,  she  found  her  way 
to  the  bed.  Without  the  sound  of  a  cry,  or  the  hesi- 
tation of  those  who  are  suddenly  brought  into  the 


3U    THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

presence  of  Death,  she  lifted  the  sheet  from  his  face. 
It  was  almost  as  though  she  had  expected  to  find 
that  he  was  asleep. 

For  a  httle  while,  she  stood  there,  looking  quietly 
at  the  peacefulness  of  it  all,  then  she  bent  over 
the  bed.  Claudina  saw  her  whisper  something  in  his 
ear.  At  the  last,  she  crossed  him  with  trembling 
finger,  laid  back  the  sheet  upon  his  face  and,  with- 
out a  sound,  slowly  turned  away. 

In  Claudina's  hands  she  was  like  a  little  child. 
Like  a  little  child,  she  was  undressed,  like  a  little 
child  put  into  her  bed,  the  clothes  pulled  warmly 
round  her,  her  beads  given  into  her  hand  to  hold. 

With  candle  lighted  and  held  above  her  head, 
Claudina  stood  at  the  door  before  she  went  out. 
The  tears  rushed  warmly  to  her  eyes  as  she  saw  the 
white  head  alone  upon  the  pillow,  and  thought  of 
the  silent  figure  they  had  just  left  in  the  other 
room. 

"  Buona  notte,  signoray*  she  said  as  bravely  as 
she  could. 

"  Buona  notte,"  replied  the  little  old  white-haired 
lady. 

At  her  accustomed  hour  of  the  morning,  came 
Claudina  into  the  little  room.  Feeling  her  way  to 
the  window,  she  threw  open  wide  the  jalousies.  A 
flood  of  sunshine  beat  into  the  room  and  made  all 
dazzling  white.  Claudina  felt  thankful  for  it.  It 
was  a  new  day.     It  was  a  wonderful  day. 

She  turned  to  the  bed.  There  was  the  still  white 
head,  alone  upon  the  pillow,  the  powerless  hand  just 


THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE    345 

showing  from  beneath  the  coverlet,  still  holding  its 
string  of  beads. 

"  Buona  GiornOy  signora,"  she  said,  trying  to 
make  the  note  of  some  cheerfulness  in  her  voice. 

But  there  was  no  reply. 

Far  away  out  in  the  wonderful  city,  she  heard 
the  cry  of  a  gondolier, — "  Ohe  " — and  in  through 
the  window,  there  floated  a  butterfly  of  white,  that 
had  been  beating  Its  wings  against  the  jalousies 
outside.  Into  the  room  it  flew,  dipping  and  dancing, 
swaying  and  lifting  in  the  free  air  of  the  day  just 
bom. 


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